


visions are seldom all they seem (but i know you)

by shattered_quill



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Arthur and Guinevere are kinda cute oop, Arthur learns how to Move On, F/M, I mean come on what's more poetic than that, Lancelot has big father-figure energy with squirrel, Lancelot learns how to be a Better Person, Nimulot - Freeform, author is not sure what she's doing, basically a reylo medieval au, bc thats what cursed is, but hopefully she's doing it well, isn't it, merlin and morgana friendship bc why not, merlin learns how to be a Dad, nimue is just done, nimue is water and Lancelot is fire, nimulot is basically the zutara and reylo baby, this a spite fic for tros, yes im still salty over tros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25636300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shattered_quill/pseuds/shattered_quill
Summary: Nimue, afraid that King Uther has gone back on his deal with the Fey, is determined to make certain that her people are safe. Along the way, she runs into an old friend and a new face.Arthur and the Red Spear, fearing that King Cumber is after Nimue, remain with the Fey on the shore. Arthur's focus is saving Nimue, while the Red Spear knows it is her duty to beat her father and take back the throne. As they work together—and grow closer—can they deny the spark between them?Squirrel, unknowing that Nimue has escaped capture, feels that it is his duty to save Nimue from her fate at the hands of King Uther. Lancelot makes it his duty to protect Squirrel, despite the danger looming at them from all sides.Morgana and Merlin, fueled by vengeance, are determined to kill Iris for her part in Nimue's demise.
Relationships: Arthur/Nimue (Cursed), Arthur/Red Spear | Guinevere (Cursed), Merlin & Nimue (Cursed), Morgana | Igraine & Nimue & Pym (Cursed), Nimue & Pym & Squirrel | Percival (Cursed), Nimue & Squirrel | Percival (Cursed), Nimue/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), merlin & morgana (cursed)
Comments: 94
Kudos: 233





	1. Chapter 1

The water pulled Nimue down, down, down, greedy in its hold over her body. She was sinking in a shroud of her own blood. Red, red, red. The pain she felt was unlike anything she had experienced before. She would scream if she could, but even that took too much energy. 

She was dying. And while she should have been calm, knowing that death was inevitable—that she would be able to see her mother again—she could feel nothing but agony. There was so much she had to do. Were the Fey safe? Did they make it to the ships? What of Pym and Squirrel and Arthur? What of Morgana and Merlin?

Merlin. Her father. The man who had tried to save her despite being near-death himself. A burst of agony flashed through her. There had been unadulterated rage in Merlin’s eyes toward Iris as he had flung himself forward and caught Nimue’s hand. And when she had slipped through his fingers, there was only pain, a gut-wrenching agony that she felt in her core.

This couldn’t be the end. Her story couldn’t end here, it _couldn’t_.

. . . could it?

She had lived her entire life wishing to be accepted, and when that wish had not been granted, she had tried to run. Away from her problems, away from her life. But when she wasn’t running, she had been fighting. She had fought the wolves and had gained herself a name. She had fought the Red Paladins and led her people and named herself a queen. Nimue had run, but she had also fought. And now, as the water slowly stole her breath, she was fighting still. 

She did not want to die. She wasn’t ready. There was so much to do, so much she had yet to accomplish.

But Nimue was growing tired and losing consciousness. She could not fight forever, it seemed. 

She was about to give in to Death’s call when she felt it: the Hidden. They reached out to her, desperate in their plea. She felt their power flow through her, felt them clamber to the forefront of her mind. Their shouts of desperation pushed her into action, and she called upon the magic inside of her in a last-ditch effort. 

Vines and roots alike reached out to her from the darkness of the water, grasping her limbs in an attempt to save her from this watery grave. She was barely conscious when she reached the surface, little more than a deadweight for the Hidden to pull to shore. They laid her gently on the rocks of the beach and slithered away. 

Nimue’s eyes shot open and she rolled onto her side, heaving up water. The next lungfuls of air were painful, but they were the sweetest she had ever tasted. The pain meant that she was _alive_ , that she had survived this. The air was sharp and stinging, but Nimue relished in it. Each gust of piercing wind widened her smile. She wasn’t dead.

She pushed herself off of the ground and immediately winced. The arrows stuck in her chest brought a fresh wave of pain over her, and she doubled over. Nimue squeezed her eyes shut and bit back a torrent of curses. She didn’t have any medical supplies or Fey ointments. She was alone without resources and two arrows stuck in her chest.

The Hidden bombarded her mind with unintelligible whispers once more. Nimue had not been able to use their power for anything other than destruction before, except for when she had produced fruit from a barren tree. Merlin had guided her then, but he was not here now.

 _Anger is your flint to the fire_ , he had said, telling her something she had already known. But then, _There are other ways to access the Hidden. Imagine the result you want_. 

She was running out of time. If she wanted to live, if she wanted to see her friends again, then she had to try. 

Stealing herself, Nimue called out to the Hidden.

 _Create an intention, and then surrender that intention to the Hidden_.

She wanted to be healed. She wanted the arrows out of her chest, wanted her wounds closed. Nimue held onto Merlin’s words, felt their truth in the way the Hidden had once listened to her wishes. The whispers grew.

There were two sharp stabs of pain—one in her left shoulder, one in the center of her chest—and then everything was numb. She heard rather than felt the arrows fall and clatter to the ground. It was only when the whispers receded that Nimue reached a hand up to touch the points where the arrows had lodged themselves in her chest. 

Her mouth parted slightly, amazed that instead of two gaping holes, there were only two scars. The Hidden had listened to her, had _healed_ her. 

Unable to quench her relief and triumph, she laughed aloud. Anyone nearby would have thought her mad, but Nimue could not care less. She had been given a second chance, and she would not hesitate to fulfill it as she had before. That scared little girl who had tried to run from her destiny was dead. She had died in the lake, and was buried in its depths. Nimue would no longer hide from what she was meant to do. She was the Wolf-Blood Witch, the Fey Queen, and she would not be cowed.

Soaking wet in a mix of blood and water, she glanced around. She was alone, save for Red Paladin bodies littered on the stone bridge above. No Merlin, no Morgana, no Iris with her bow and arrows. No sword. 

She frowned. No matter, she would find her friends soon enough. She knew where Arthur and the Fey were headed, knew where the ships had taken them if all went to plan, so that was where she would check first. But there was still something nagging at her, a seedling of doubt.

If the king had not been able to stop the church from interfering with her life, she doubted he would have been able to stop the church’s interference with the Fey. 

But before she could do any of that, she needed dry clothes. Now that she wasn’t half-dead, the cold air was beginning to wrack her body with shudders. Biting her cheek against the onslaught of harsh winds, Nimue made her way up the mountainside and toward the stone bridge. It took her an embarrassing amount of time, but she figured it wasn’t too bad since she had almost died mere moments before. 

Nimue blinked. All of the Red Paladins had lightning scars on their skin and charred holes seared straight through their robes. Had there been a storm while she was drowning? She studied the bodies closer and deduced that the strokes were too deliberate to be a coincidence. Merlin must have gained his magic back—that was the only explanation she could come up with. 

She combed through the dead Red Paladins, searching for one of their robes that wasn’t completely destroyed. Once she found one that would do, Nimue carefully ripped the fabric off of the man, tearing the seam at its side. She threw the robe around her shoulders, shivering at another gust of wind.

Clenching her teeth, Nimue made her feet move toward the mountain pass where she, Morgana, and Merlin had been headed before Iris had shot her. Though the Hidden had healed her wounds, there was still an ache deep inside of her. She was exhausted from the emotional toll of the day; all she wanted to do was sleep. 

But Nimue was a queen with a duty to her people. If the church had sabotaged the Fey, then she needed to save them. She would not let them suffer through what had taken her mother and her village. She would _not_.

Nimue resolved that she would save her people even if she died trying.

* * *

The moon rose as the Fey made camp along the shoreline and in the surrounding caves of the beach. Arthur and the Red Spear had quickly taken charge. They had gathered those left alive together and debated on their next move: they could either board the ships to the new land, as had been promised to them; or they could stay and rescue Nimue. 

Though there were a few who wanted to leave, they were quickly convinced by the consensus to fight for their queen. The Fey had stuck together for a long time before Nimue had made herself their queen, and now was not the time for them to be parted. 

It gave Arthur peace of mind to know that he was not alone in his devotion to Nimue, that there were others who would risk their lives for her as she had for them.

He had wanted to go after Nimue immediately, but the Red Spear persuaded him against it.

“The Fey need to rest, as do my people. We’ll figure out our plan of attack in the morning, but not right now,” she had said.

So instead of his instinct to rush into battle to save Nimue, Arthur helped ration out food and water. 

There wasn’t much to sort through; no one had thought to bring more than they could carry. They had, after all, assumed that they would be on their way to new lands by now. 

The Red Spear worked beside him in comfortable silence. Ever since the battle, an understanding had passed between them. Arthur was not quite sure what that meant, but he was relieved that he wouldn’t have to fight against her. He considered himself a good swordsman, but he knew, without a doubt, the Red Spear would be able to take him down in an instant.

It was a good thing that she was on their side. They would need her skill if they were going to rescue Nimue from the king and the Red Paladins.

Nimue. He shouldn’t have let her go, should never have let her out of his sight. But he had, and now he was paying the price. If Cumber the Ice King sabotaged King Uther’s plans for the Fey, then who was to say he wouldn’t interfere with Uther’s plans for Nimue?

Arthur clenched his fists. The deal was a fool’s bargain, to begin with. He had to save her. His Nimue.

The Red Spear broke him out of his reverie. 

“We should make our way to the caves. It will provide more shelter than out here,” she said once the last of the rations had been passed out. 

Arthur murmured his agreement and the two made their way into one of the closest cavities. There were already a few lit fires inside, and Arthur searched for Pym. He had made certain she survived the battle, for Nimue’s sake, but he hadn’t analyzed her for major injuries. 

There were not many Fey, though there hadn’t been many to begin with. It was lucky the Red Spear and her army had shown up when they did, or else there might not have been any left. The dead were left out on the beach while the injured were moved inside the caverns. 

As Arthur and the Red Spear made their way through the encampment, they made sure to watch where they stepped. It was a tight space, but it was better than leaving the injured out in the open. 

His gaze caught on Pym, who was sitting near the back with a group of raiders. He nodded his head in their direction and said, “Let’s head there.”

Arthur didn’t wait for the Red Spear to follow him. When Pym spotted him, she grinned and waved him toward her. He sat beside her on a piece of driftwood, while the Red Spear sat across from him with her comrades. She pulled the tip of her spear into her lap, produced a knife from her boot, and then proceeded to sharpen her spearhead.

He turned toward Pym. “Are you okay?” 

“Better than Blondie, here,” she said, gesturing to the other side of her where a burly man with a blond beard sat.

The man had a gash on his temple. The blood streaked down his face and matted in his beard. Upon hearing the nickname Pym had given him, he glared at the petite girl. 

“Oh, lighten up,” Pym laughed. “You know you love it.”

The man grumbled something under his breath.

“So you’re not hurt?” Arthur clarified. He had quickly realized that Pym often made jokes to avoid difficult matters or stress in general. Nimue had been good at prying information from her when she was like this, so Arthur took a page out of Nimue’s book.

Pym shook her head. “No. I stayed in here, in the cave. And even if I had joined the fight, I have this,” she gestured at an elaborate necklace, “to protect me.” 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Arthur said, his lips quirking up. He did not think that he could manage to produce a real smile, at least not yet. Not until he knew that Nimue was safe. 

Arthur looked to the Red Spear. Her focus was on her spearhead, on sharpening its sides. It gave him a chance to study her. The flames cast long shadows across her face, making her look older than her years. Her nose piercing glinted in the light, as if it were made of liquid fire. Her eyebrows were pinched together in concentration. He wondered what she was thinking of, and then he realized that he did not know much about her at all. A thought occurred to him.

“What’s your real name?” he asked, breaking the silence. 

The Red Spear glanced up at him, an eyebrow raised. “You can call me the Red Spear.” 

Arthur frowned. “Yes, but—”

“I am afraid we don’t know each other well enough for me to reveal my true name to you,” she cut in, leveling him with a harsh look. “So stop asking.”

Arthur closed his mouth and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying more. But as the minutes ticked on, he had to know—

“Why would you help us if you don’t trust us?”

She stopped sharpening her spear, irritated. “Look, we may not be Fey, but that doesn’t mean our names are any less powerful. Do not fault me if I don’t tell you mine.”

Arthur raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Alright,” he said at last. “Consider that the last time I asked.”

The Red Spear met his eyes and nodded, satisfied, before shifting her focus back to her spear. 

Arthur did not understand why the Red Spear refused to part the shroud of secrecy surrounding her. It made no sense. In his experience, if you were fighting together, you trusted that person with your life—there had to be no room for doubt. She was a puzzle to him, one that was getting increasingly more difficult to solve. 

No one spoke for a few moments. Pym was the first to break the silence, her eyes downcast. “Do you think Nimue is alright?” 

Arthur gazed into the fire, watched the flames dance. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. Nimue had sacrificed herself—and for what? They didn’t make it to the ships anyway.

The Red Spear paused in her sharpening once more. Her eyes were gentle, an expression Arthur hadn’t seen on her yet. It softened her features.

“Your queen is most likely being tortured for information. Worst case, she’s already been killed,” she said matter-of-factly.

Arthur’s stomach dropped. Pym’s eyes widened. It was not what she wanted to hear—it wasn’t what Arthur wanted to hear, either. He turned his face away, worked his jaw.

“We have to get her back,” he declared. 

The Red Spear’s eyes found his. “No.” It was a simple statement with no room for negotiation. 

“What do you mean ‘no’?” argued Arthur, rage flickering inside of him. 

“I _mean_ , we can’t do anything about your queen right now—we have more important things to focus on.”

That was the wrong thing to say. 

“Nothing,” Arthur seethed, voice deadly calm, “is more important to me than Nimue.”

The Red Spear sighed as if she were talking to a child. “Look, Arthur, I know that this is hard for you, but until my father is dealt with, then your queen will never be safe.” 

“She’ll be safer with us,” he said, leaning forward. “I know it.” 

“Maybe so, but rescuing her from who-knows-where expends more resources than we can afford right now.” She laid her spear on the ground, having finished sharpening it. “Your queen is strong. She has immense power—she’ll be fine, long enough for us to take command of Cumber’s army.”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose before fixing the Red Spear with a stare. “No. Not going to happen. You can deal with Cumber, but the Fey and I will be rescuing our queen.”

The Red Spear groaned. “Arthur, listen to me: you can’t go up against the king’s army. Your queen was the only one powerful enough to go head-to-head with them. Without her, you will be crushed,” she said, factual. “And then what would her sacrifice be for?”

Arthur hated to admit it, but she had a good point. He couldn’t risk everything that Nimue had done for them on a gamble. 

After a moment of tense silence in which everyone in their little group was staring at him, Arthur gave a terse nod. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Alright. But you have to promise me that you will do everything in your power to get her back once you’ve bested Cumber.” 

The Red Spear’s eyes were determined when she said, “I promise.” 

* * *

“Where are we going to go?” Squirrel asked, cocking his head at Lancelot.

They had stopped along a river to allow their horse to rest. Lancelot had shrugged off his cloak and was kneeling down by the riverbank in an attempt to wipe the blood off of his face and hands. 

At Squirrel’s question, Lancelot turned his head toward where the boy stood next to the horse. Something about the child struck a chord with him. Squirrel was too young to lose so much. Perhaps that was why Lancelot had become so protective of him. Or it had been because of something else entirely. 

_Does he remind you of someone?_ the abbot had asked.

He hadn’t admitted it, but Squirrel reminded Lancelot of himself. He had only been a boy when Carden ripped him from his home after his disciples had burned his village. Oh, how he had hated Carden for it, how he had despised him. 

But as time went on, Lancelot began to forget what it was like to truly be one of the Fey. Memories of his family grew hazy and were replaced by memories of Carden and the Red Paladins instead. They were replaced by memories where Lancelot was the one destroying villages like his own, where Lancelot killed his own kind. 

The Green Knight’s words had stuck with him. They had latched themselves onto Lancelot, branded themselves onto his heart. 

_Why didn’t you tell them?_ Lancelot had asked. _Before . . . you could have told them. But you didn’t. Why?_

 _Because all Fey are brothers. Even the lost ones_ , the Green Knight had said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. 

Lancelot did not want Squirrel to suffer the same fate that he had. He owed that much to the Green Knight.

“We will go to the nearest village to gather supplies, and then I’ll take you back to your friends, wherever they may be,” Lancelot said, rubbing off a splotch of blood on his palm. 

Squirrel frowned. “What do you mean ‘wherever they may be’? Aren’t they still at Gramaire?”

Lancelot blinked. He was reminded that this boy had probably been away for the entire time the deal was being made. “The last I had heard, the Fey were being given safe passage off-land in exchange for your queen.”

“Nimue traded herself for the Fey?” There was a note of disbelief in Squirrel’s voice. 

Lancelot merely nodded, unsure what to say. He did not know how close the boy and the Fey Queen were—if he should offer words of comfort or simply let Squirrel figure out his feelings on his own. 

Squirrel turned away, only to turn back to face Lancelot a moment later. “We need to go rescue her.” 

Lancelot’s brows furrowed immediately. “We cannot risk it—it’s too dangerous.”

“Nimue could be hurt!” Squirrel shouted, and then proceeded to attempt to climb onto the horse. “We must go.”

“No, we must not.” 

Squirrel gave up trying to get into the saddle and rounded on Lancelot instead. “And why not? Nimue risks herself for everyone else! She’s my friend, and friends help each other.”

“There’s only one of me against King Uther’s army. That won’t end well.” 

The boy was indignant. “There's _two_ of us.”

 _Like that will make so much of a difference_. Lancelot bit his tongue against the remark and said instead, “You don’t even know how to fight, Percival.”

Squirrel crossed his arms. “You know I don’t like that name.”

“And you know that it’s too dangerous to go into the king’s camp alone and unprotected. Don’t you?” Lancelot stood from his spot by the riverbank and slipped on his cloak. 

Squirrel looked away and remained silent. 

Lancelot sighed and stepped toward him, deciding that the boy’s affection for the Fey Queen would only cloud his judgment. He needed to switch tactics.

“How about this: we find your friends and I teach you how to fight. Then we can save your queen. You are a knight, after all,” Lancelot said after a moment of deliberation. 

A pair of blue eyes met his own. “You mean it? You’ll teach me to fight?” 

Lancelot’s lips quirked up unconsciously. “I mean it.” 

Squirrel grinned. “Yes!” he crowed, punching a fist in the air in triumph.

Lancelot liked seeing the boy happy and was glad his promise did the trick. But Squirrel had a fast-track mind and wouldn’t be occupied for long. Lancelot would need to stall for time in order to gather his thoughts. 

Though he had promised to teach the boy how to fight in order to placate him, Lancelot knew that he would have to learn at some point. Why not now? The sun was still high in the sky, beating down upon them. They would have time to get supplies later. He searched around the riverbank for a moment, and when his gaze landed on two sticks about the same length, he gave one to Squirrel and kept the other for himself.

Turning the stick over in his hand, Squirrel asked, “What are these for?”

Lancelot had two swords on his person, but he assumed that giving a child a sharp weapon on his first lesson was not the smartest option. Especially when that child was impulsive and accident-prone. 

“Lesson one: anything can be used as a weapon.” Lancelot paused, contemplating his next words. Father Carden had taught him how to first use a sword and had guided him through the motions. “Hold the stick like this,” he said, adjusting Squirrel’s grip on the stick as if it were a true sword. 

When the boy was holding the mock-sword properly, Lancelot spoke. “Now, I want you to do what you think will disable me the fastest.”

It was something Father Carden had said to him when they first began their lessons. _Disable me as best you can. Imagine that I am the enemy_. 

But Carden and his Red Paladins had always been the enemy, in a way. They had burned his village, taken him from his home. Lancelot’s imagination had not had to stretch far in order to conjure up the memory of his home in flames, of those same flames reflected in his mentor’s eyes.

At first, Lancelot had been Squirrel’s captor—his enemy—just as Father Carden had been Lancelot’s. He had bore witness to the burning of the boy’s home and had captured him for his own purposes. 

Bile rose in Lancelot’s throat. Maybe he was not so different from Carden as he had thought. 

Squirrel studied him for a moment, unsure. “Okay . . .” he said, glancing between Lancelot and the stick in his hands. And then, true to his nickname, he darted forward and slashed his stick toward Lancelot’s side.

Lancelot blocked the blow with ease, causing the boy to stumble back from the momentum. “Focus,” he commanded.

The boy narrowed his eyes in concentration before running forward again, this time diving for Lancelot’s legs. The monk merely stepped to the side, and Squirrel fell into the dirt. 

“This isn’t fair,” Squirrel huffed, picking himself off of the ground. 

“And you think that going up against an entire army will be?” Lancelot raised a brow.

Squirrel looked away. 

Lancelot’s voice softened. “Sword-fighting took me years to master. I do not expect you to get it right away.” Squirrel met his eyes, albeit reluctantly. “This art takes focus and precision. Every move must be deliberate.”

“But we don’t have time for that. I need to be good _now_.” Squirrel crossed his arms, indignant. 

Lancelot looked out over the empty land stretching out for miles in every direction. He was not good with people, with talking. He hardly ever spoke a word, and when he did, it was usually just reporting to Father Carden or barking out orders. But with Squirrel, Lancelot had to actively think of how to handle the situation and say the right things.

After a moment, Lancelot spoke. “These things take time. No one can simply pick up a sword and instantly be a good fighter.”

“But that’s what Nimue did,” Squirrel pouted. “She’s never even held a weapon before the Sword of Power but she killed those wolves and Red Paladins.” 

Lancelot hid his surprise. The Wolf-Blood Witch amazed him the more he learned about her. He was not sure what to make of her, but he knew that she was one of the most powerful beings since Merlin. He knew that she was made to be a queen.

“Your queen . . .” Lancelot trailed off, choosing his next words with care. “Your queen’s situation is a little different. She was forced to become so much in so little time.” 

“Why can’t I be as good as her?” 

Discarding his stick to the side, Lancelot squatted down to be at Squirrel’s eye level. The boy looked at him, brow furrowed, eyes confused. Lancelot brought his hands to Squirrel’s shoulders and said, “Stop comparing yourself to her. You may not have the skill she does, but you have just as much heart.” Lancelot’s lips quirked. “You sneaked into a Red Paladin camp, completely unarmed, in order to save your friend.”

At the mention of the Green Knight, Squirrel looked down.

Guilt caught in Lancelot’s throat, but he barreled on. “That takes strength, Percival, and I know that your friend would be proud of you.” 

Squirrel froze. “‘Would be’?”

Lancelot tensed, realizing his mistake. He did not know for certain if the Green Knight had died or not, but he had assumed that he had based on the severity of his wounds. Lancelot hurried to move on, to distract the boy from his pain.

“What I am trying to say is that you do not need to prove your worth by becoming a knight and fighting in battle. You have already proven your loyalty and strength by doing what no one else did.” 

Squirrel did not seem completely deterred from Lancelot’s slip, but some of the tension in his body released nonetheless. He did not speak, only nodded once.

Lancelot figured that was as good as he would get, and stood to help the boy back onto the horse. When they were both situated, they continued on their path in comfortable silence.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

“I’m going to kill that child. The one who shot my Nimue,” Merlin snarled.

“You will?” Morgana paused, an odd, ethereal feeling overtaking her. It was almost like a sixth sense, something she had not had before she became . . . well, whatever this state of being was. At that moment, she believed the wizard in front of her. But Merlin’s resolve wasn’t the thing that made her believe him, rather it was a sense of foreboding, a prickling at the base of her spine. “Yes,” she continued, “I suppose you will.”

With his strike of lightning, Merlin had brought them to his old tower. Morgana had been uneasy with the thought of being discovered, but the wizard had only chuckled darkly.

“Uther won’t be able to face these rooms any time soon,” he had said. “Not after what he did to me.”

Morgana had raised an eyebrow. “You give his conscience a great deal of credit.”

“Perhaps,” Merlin had shrugged, “but I would like to think all of my years have taught me a thing or two on how to read people.”

Now Morgana stared out of one of the tower’s windows, contemplating all that had happened, analyzing Nimue’s final moments. Merlin paced the room, mumbling about revenge and wiping furiously at stray tears. Morgana pretended not to notice, pretended not to notice how she did not share in his grief.

Something wasn’t right. She felt every death as if it were her own, but she had not felt Nimue’s. It was strange, but perhaps the shock hadn’t worn off yet. She had screamed and cried when Iris had shot Nimue, but now she felt numb, as if she wasn’t quite attached to her feelings. Perhaps she would feel different once she accepted Nimue’s death.

Morgana frowned against the thought. She still could not shake the instinctual sense that something was amiss.

“You said that you know the woman who came before me,” Morgana started, breaking the tense silence.

Merlin turned to face her. “Yes,” he said, quiet. “I did. She and I . . . we were old friends.”

Morgana fiddled with her hands, contemplating how to properly phrase her next question. “Did she say anything about how it felt when someone died? Did she feel every death? Or only some?”

She knew that she was toeing a line, knew that if she was not careful, Merlin would figure out what she meant by her seemingly innocent question. He might have been an unreliable drunkard, but that did not mean he wasn’t smart.

Merlin studied her a moment before replying. “She did not tell me much, though I do know she felt every single death that occurred under her jurisdiction.”

That gave Morgana pause. “‘Under her jurisdiction?’” she parroted back.

Nodding, Merlin said, “There are many Daughters of Death. To have only one entity responsible for deaths all over the world is simply improbable—thousands of people could be on the brink of death at once, so of course there would need to be more than one Daughter accountable for them.

"The Daughters of Death, as I know, are separated into regions. The higher the population, the busier they are. The more deaths they would feel.” He frowned. “The Widow did not tell me much of what it felt like to carry the burden of so much death, but I do know that she felt every single departure.”

Morgana pursed her lips. Was Nimue not under her jurisdiction? Was that why she had not felt her death?

Finally, she said, “I see. That makes sense.”

Except for the fact that it didn’t make sense, not where Nimue was concerned. But Morgana couldn’t pry more for fear that Merlin would figure out what she was really asking, and she couldn’t do that to him. She couldn’t give him hope that Nimue was still alive.

“What else can I do now that I am . . .” Morgana gestured at herself, unsure what to make of her new self.

Merlin moved to stand next to her at the window, silent for a few moments as he gazed down at the sea below them. The waves lapped against the shore calmly, belying the horror of the day.

When Merlin spoke, he was looking out into the distance. Morgana would have found it a tad dramatic, had she not realized it was the action of a man who was shipwrecked and lost at sea. It was the action of one who had lost everything and was trying to pick up the pieces from the wreckage.

Guilt crept up her throat. Merlin’s behavior was yet another reminder that she did not feel his loss or pain or agony. Was this the rest of her life? Was she to be devoid of any and all human emotion? Had her empathy departed with her human life?

Morgana turned her face away.

“You, like the Widow and the other Daughters, can travel far distances in mere seconds.” He smiled grimly. “Though, I suppose you already knew that.”

Morgana nodded, still unable to meet his eyes. Being able to teleport was freeing—she could go anywhere, no longer tied down by earthly laws. Though she grieved for her old life, she was learning to enjoy the perks of this new one.

But her sole duty was to take life for the rest of eternity. She could not, in good conscience, enjoy anything about this situation. It wasn’t right.

“Most believe that the Daughters are unable to make contact with the physical world as if they are mere ghosts or apparitions,” Merlin said, shaking his head. “They are wrong. Just because you are no longer human doesn’t mean that you can’t do human things, per se.”

Morgana finally met his gaze. “Like what?”

His eyes gleamed. It took Morgana aback; it was the only emotion other than sorrow that he had shown all day.

“You can travel anywhere in the world and experience things the rest of us cannot. You are no longer limited by your mortal body, Morgana,” he said, a tinge of awe in his voice. “But you can also be human, in the sense that you can enjoy the simple things. You can enjoy the beauty of a sunset or the peace of the ocean.”

Morgana looked out to the sea once more, but instead of taking in its beauty, all she felt was the death inside of it. She could sense the decay on the ocean floor, could feel the life seeping out of a shark’s prey. Nothing about the ocean was beautiful anymore.

It was yet another piece of her human life she would be forced to mourn. She wished that she had not killed the Widow, now more than ever. Morgana would never again be able to enjoy the sun on her face or the tickle of an ocean breeze. She would never be able to look past the death that clung to every living thing.

Morgana would have to suffer through an eternity of this unless someone was kind enough to kill her and foolish enough to take her place.

It was suddenly difficult to breathe. She forced air into her lungs, blinked rapidly. Panic was the only word to describe what she was experiencing.

 _Eternity, eternity, eternity_. The word rattled inside her head. _Forever forever foreverforeverforever._

Morgana needed to get out of this room, she needed a distraction.

She stumbled back from the window, knowing where she needed to go. There were so many things she could not control, but she _could_ get closure. 

Merlin turned to her, worry etched on his countenance. “Morgana, are you alri—”

“I have to go,” she said at once, and vanished.

* * *

The wind howled through the rocky pass, buffeting against Nimue’s stolen robes. She clutched one of the Red Paladins’ swords in her fist, as if it would give her strength to push forward. She had had the foresight to grab it, knowing that she should be prepared for anything once she arrived at the beach, unsure of what she would find there.

Nimue knew that it was foolish to hope, but she did anyway. Even if King Uther had not betrayed her, once he discovered that she had escaped, there was a chance he would nullify their agreement and order the Fey charter ships to be sunk.

A chill seized her spine at the thought of the watery depths of sea pulling Arthur and Pym down, down, down. Even with magic, Nimue had almost drowned. If King Uther wished it, her friends would not stand a chance. 

Nimue pushed herself into a jog, mindful of her footing—fallen rocks littered the path before her. One wrong move, and she could trip and fall into the abyss below. 

A twig snapped behind her, and Nimue whirled, sword at the ready, only to lower it a moment later. 

“Morgana?” she asked, relief flooding her veins.

Morgana merely stared at her, awe and incredulity shining in her eyes as if she could not believe that this moment was real. Only after she fully accepted the situation, did a huge grin break out onto her face. She rushed forward to embrace her friend, and Nimue’s sword clattered to the ground in anticipation.

“We thought you were dead,” Morgana breathed into Nimue’s hair. “Merlin was so worried—”

“Merlin.” Nimue pulled back from the hug but kept her hands on Morgana’s shoulders. “How is he?” 

“Alive. Now that he has his magic back, his wounds are healed.” Morgana’s small smile contorted suddenly. “But, oh God, Nimue—he was so worried—”

“You must let him know that I’m alright,” Nimue said, adamant. “At once.” 

“I will, don’t worry, but,” Morgana’s eyes tightened, “how did you even survive? You took two arrows straight to the chest, Nimue.” 

Nimue smiled softly. “Merlin helped me.” When Morgana’s brows furrowed in question, Nimue hurried to explain. “Well, not physically, but back at the abandoned palace, he taught me how to control the Hidden. I made fruit grow from a barren tree—I figured that creation was not far off from healing.” She shrugged. “It was worth a shot.” 

“You truly are the rightful Queen of the Fey.” Morgana smiled, not attempting to hide the pride in her voice.

Nimue chuckled dryly. “I almost drowned. That sounds like too simple a death for a queen.” Morgana opened her mouth to object, but Nimue continued. “I feel as if my time as the Fey Queen was only a dream. It doesn’t feel real, anyway.”

Eyes softening, Morgana said, “Nimue, you have conquered wolves and Red Paladins and now you have conquered Death herself. You are the rightful queen who has walked away from every battle victorious. You rose from the lake stronger than you were before.”

Nimue couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at her lips. “You are a good friend, Morgana. I’m lucky to have you by my side.” 

“And you’ll always have me,” Morgana replied, pulling Nimue into another hug. 

The two girls stayed like that for moments on end, simply enjoying the other’s presence. It seemed as if it had been an eternity since they had felt safe, but they both knew that it wouldn’t last. There was a war to win and Fey to save. It was only when Nimue knew she could stall no longer did she retreat from her friend’s embrace. 

“I should get going. Who knows what happened to the Fey while I was gone.” Nimue retrieved her stolen sword from the ground, frowning at its weight. Unlike the Sword of Power, this one was heavy and unbalanced, an impediment rather than an extension of herself. She had half a mind to ask Morgana to retrieve the Sword of Power from Merlin, but decided against it. She would make do with what she had for now. 

“What do you want me to do?” Morgana asked. 

Nimue’s brow furrowed. “You are a harbinger of death,” she said, incredulous. “You take orders from no one but yourself.” 

At that, Morgana’s smile turned grim. “Ah. That.” 

“You haven’t accepted your new life.” It was more of a statement than a question, and Morgana’s expression only served to confirm Nimue’s suspicions. “You must move on, Morgana,” Nimue continued. “It took me a long time to accept who I was. If I had done it sooner, I could have saved a lot of people.” 

_I could have saved my mother_ , she thought but didn't say. 

Morgana’s eyes hardened. Donned in black drapery, she was a fierce sight to behold. “I can’t save anyone. You don’t understand what this—this _curse_ is.” She turned away to glare into the abyss below, face stony. “For the rest of eternity, until someone kills me, I am to make a living out of murder.”

“I used to think my powers were a curse, too, you know,” Nimue said, though not unkindly.

Morgana only shook her head. “Maybe so, but you’re not the one forced to take lives—I am.”

“That’s not what I—”

“I am a _Daughter of Death_ , Nimue,” Morgana snapped, whirling on her. “I am a soul-stealer and a monster, all because I allowed Cailleach to get in my head.” Her teeth were bared, though Nimue suspected that if Morgana was mad, it was at no one but herself. “I knew that Celia died in that fire, I _knew_ that. And yet I still fell for Cailleach’s pretty visions and empty promises.” 

“None of that is your fault,” Nimue pacified. “She’s an ancient, powerful being that preyed upon your love for Celia. Do not blame yourself.” 

“How can I not? _All of this_ is my fault,” Morgana’s voice broke at the end. “You don’t understand. No one can.”

“Let me try. _Please_.” 

But Morgana only turned away. “I should let Merlin know that you’re alright.” 

“Morgana, wait—”

But Morgana was already gone.

Nimue closed her eyes, mad at the world, angry at herself. She should not have brought up Morgana’s new life without thinking of the consequences. Before, when Morgana had rescued her, she had seemed fine with what she had become, had taken it in stride. But Nimue now knew that she had been mistaken. 

Morgana was excellent in high-pressure situations—Nimue had seen it in how she reeled in her emotions and focused on the task at hand. She did not let her feelings get in the way of what needed to be done, but Nimue had mistaken that for complacency.

Oh, how wrong she had been.

It was then that Nimue heard it—horse hooves clopping atop the stone bridge. She froze, but quickly came to her senses and shifted into a fighting stance, sword at the ready.

The clopping of the horse was slow and unbothered as if the rider was taking their sweet time. As if no one was after her, as if someone just happened along this path accidentally. 

Nimue didn’t buy it. 

She could feel the magic thrumming in her veins, could hear the whispers of the Hidden urging her to unleash their power. It would be entirely too easy to make the bridge collapse in on itself.

The whispers reached a crescendo, Nimue called upon the magic—

And promptly stopped. 

Because there, in front of her on a horse, sat a boy whom she had never thought she would see again.

“Squirrel?” gasped Nimue, disbelieving. 

The boy’s eyes widened comically and a blinding smile broke out over his face. “Nimue!” He scrambled off of the horse, and it was only then that Nimue realized that there was a second rider helping him down. 

Nimue’s grip tightened on her sword, but she was careful to make sure the blade didn’t touch Squirrel as he ran into her waiting arms. She pulled him in tight, her eyes not once leaving the second figure. Hugging the boy closer to her chest, Nimue stared down the man who had overseen the burning of her village, the man who had slain innocent Fey that had aided her when no one else would.

The Weeping Monk met her gaze cooly, betraying nothing. His hood was down, and his crystal blue eyes studied her as if he was not sure what to make of her.

Nimue stood abruptly and shoved Squirrel behind her as gently as she could, directing her fury at the Monk. “I don’t know what you’re doing here with Squirrel, but you need to leave. Now,” she snarled. “I have half a mind to kill you where you stand.”

Squirrel stilled behind her. 

The Monk’s face was impassive. “I do not doubt it.” 

“Then why are you still here? I make good on my threats.” She raised her sword higher for good measure.

Before he could respond, Squirrel darted out from behind Nimue and positioned himself between her sword and the Monk. Nimue opened her mouth to tell him to get back, but before she could, the boy continued. “Don’t hurt him, Nimue. Lancelot saved me from the Red Paladins. He’s good now.”

“Oh?” Her question was aimed at Squirrel, though her eyes remained on the Monk. “And why would he do that?” 

The Monk spoke then, voice even. “I was wrong,” he said simply. “I couldn’t continue to follow Father Carden’s orders anymore. It wasn’t right.” 

“I’m so glad you’ve come to this conclusion now, when there are only a handful of Fey left that you didn’t murder in cold blood,” Nimue spat. 

The Monk didn’t say anything for a moment. Something flickered in his gaze—pain, perhaps, or sadness. Or maybe it was guilt. 

Nimue shook off the notion. Men like him felt no guilt or remorse for the things they did. She would not make him out to be anything other than the heartless murderer he was. 

Something in her eyes must have betrayed her feelings, for the next words that the Monk spoke were, “I see you are resolute in your judgment of my character.” He paused. “I can assure you that you are mistaken.” 

“I know everything I need to know about you,” Nimue hissed. 

“You do?” the Monk said, his voice almost patronizing. It made her blood boil.

Her tone was clipped. “Yes.”

There was silence for a few moments, and then, “Why do you suppose I left the Red Paladins?”

“Maybe you got tired of taking orders, or maybe you thought you could exterminate the Fey faster on your own.” She shrugged. “I don’t care because I do not believe a word out of your mouth. Nothing you could say would make me trust you. _Ever_.”

The Monk nodded as if he accepted her declaration, but the gesture only served to antagonize her further. 

Nimue stepped around Squirrel, ignoring his protests as she leveled her sword at the Monk. The tip of the blade was inches from his heart. The Hidden shouted in her head, screamed for his blood. They wanted him to _hurt_ , and she was more than happy to oblige.

The Monk merely stared at the blade. Was that a look of boredom, or of something else, something darker?

Nimue did not care to deliberate on it further, so she spoke instead, voice icy. “I will give you five seconds to leave this place or I will carve out your heart, here and now. Do you understand me?” 

He did not respond, but his eyes met hers and she was suddenly struck by how hollow they were. It was as if the fire inside of him had been snuffed out. 

The Monk turned his attention behind her to where Squirrel stood, silent. “It seems we will not be able to continue our lessons.”

Nimue tamped down her curiosity and watched the Monk carefully as he backed away from her blade. 

“Remember what we talked about, Percival,” he said, his words directed at Squirrel.

“You know I don’t—”

Somehow, the Monk’s voice was soft. “I know. But it is still your name.”

Something passed between the two, an understanding of sorts. Squirrel nodded, resigned, and he said nothing more. 

There was no mistaking it this time—there was genuine regret in the Monk’s eyes as he made his way to his horse. 

Nimue did not think that the Monk was capable of anything other than violence. It was most likely a trick, an act to get her to take pity on him, to show her that he could be redeemed. 

He has killed countless Fey, a voice in her head whispered. He watched as your village went up in flames. 

She could not afford to take pity on a murderer.

Nimue watched, her sword still raised in his direction, as the Monk made his way back to his horse. He had a limp, she realized, and it appeared as though it was a struggle for him to get atop the saddle. 

The words were out before she could stop them. “What happened?” She was not sure why she asked or why she even cared, but perhaps her curiosity was stronger than she had thought. 

The Monk stared at her for a moment before he spoke, his jaw working. “I was injured in a fight with the Trinity Guard before Percival and I escaped,” was all he said.

“Oh.” Nimue paused, and the silence stretched on. 

He waited for her to continue, almost as if he knew that there was more she wanted to say. 

“I can’t trust you,” she said finally. 

His voice was solemn as he said, “I know.” 

“Ok.” A beat. “You may travel with us, but if you so much as make one move against me or Squirrel, I will make good on my threat to disembowel you where you stand.” 

The Monk blinked at her, even as Squirrel exclaimed, “Really? You’re going to let him come with us?”

Nimue turned back to the boy. “I do not trust him enough to go off on his own and not alert the Red Paladins of our location.”

It was not entirely the reason, but it seemed to satisfy Squirrel. She looked back up at the Monk and fixed him with a sharp look. “Let’s head out.”

“Where are we going?” asked Squirrel. 

“To find the Fey.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw//mentions of child abuse

They had been traveling for hours and had only stopped to make camp when the sun’s final rays disappeared beyond the horizon.

Lancelot had offered to walk and had given Nimue and Squirrel his horse, despite having to clench his teeth against the pain of his wounds. It was the least he could do, he reasoned. He deserved much less than the kindness Nimue had afforded him. 

Throughout their journey, the young queen had habitually glanced down at him from time to time, almost like she was checking to make sure he would not run off and lead the Paladins right to them. She had caught him looking up at her more times than he’d like to admit, and each time she had quickly whipped her gaze back up to the path ahead and pretended the encounter had not happened.

Maybe if he told her of his origins, of what he truly was, he wouldn’t be met with such disdain. But a part of him refused to entertain the notion—he deserved every hateful glance she threw his way, deserved every cruel word. Maybe things would be different if he told her that he was Fey, but that did not mean that she should treat him better. 

Lancelot had killed his own kind for a god that hated his very existence. How could he face the Fey Queen after admitting such a thing? 

The answer was that he could not, and so he kept his mouth shut. 

“We’ll stop here for the night,” Nimue said as she dismounted Goliath, breaking their mutual silence.

Lancelot moved to help Squirrel down, but Nimue shot him a scathing look and helped the boy down herself. 

_If you so much as make one move against me or Squirrel, I will make good on my threat to disembowel you where you stand_.

He swallowed.

Though he and Nimue had not officially met before that day, tales of the fearsome Fey Queen had passed through the Paladin ranks like wildfire. 

_More powerful than Merlin himself_ , they had whispered. _Ambition that rivals a king’s_. 

With each story, his respect for her grew. Though her ire was now directed at him, he was glad to see that the rumors did not lie—she was every bit the queen they had said she was.

“Monk,” she said, addressing him. 

He snapped out of his reverie and met her eyes. 

She looked away. “Can you hunt?” Her tone was begrudging.

Lancelot had never actually needed to hunt before, but he was not about to tell that to the woman gripping the hilt of the sheathed Sword of Power—though he suspected that she would be able to kill him quite easily without any blade. “I can.”

“Good,” she said. “Find what you can and then meet back here. I’ll get a fire going.” 

Squirrel ran up to Lancelot’s side before Nimue had the chance to object. “I’ll come with,” he said decidedly. 

“No, you will not,” Nimue commanded, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. “The sun is setting—it’s too dangerous at night.” 

“I want to help,” Squirrel said, brow furrowing. 

Nimue shook her head. “I just got you back. I can’t lose you again.”

“I’ll be fine—I will be with him.” Squirrel jabbed his thumb in Lancelot’s direction. 

“That’s precisely what I’m worried about,” Nimue said, frowning. Her gaze met Lancelot’s then, and her eyes narrowed. 

Squirrel would not take no for an answer, it seemed. “The Green Knight made me a knight, too.” 

“And I am sure he’d be proud of you. But right now, I need you here, with me,” Nimue said, voice soft. 

Crossing his arms, Squirrel said, “You’re not my mother.” 

Hurt flashed across Nimue’s face, but the expression was gone so fast, Lancelot was not entirely sure if he had imagined it or not. “No, but I am your queen.” 

And just like that, the fight left Squirrel. The boy turned to Lancelot, disappointment etched into his features. 

Lancelot put a hand on his shoulder. “I promise that you can hunt with me some other time,” he placated, “but she’s right—it’s too dangerous. And besides, knights have a duty to protect their queen.” 

Squirrel frowned but didn’t argue. He nodded and stepped back towards Nimue, who was observing Lancelot with an odd look. Lancelot gave her a single nod and strode into the dark woods beyond them. 

He had only gone hunting for animals once before with Father Carden. Lancelot had been eight and had been learning how to be silent in the woods despite the forest floor being littered with dry leaves and fallen twigs. Though he practiced sly-footing often, hunting was another matter entirely—it took precision and care, not to mention stealth in order to be able to get close enough to a target.

He remembered being proud that Father Carden had trusted him enough to take him hunting, and the feeling of excitement at being considered ready for such a task. But when Lancelot had his bow aimed at a beautiful white stag, he could not release the arrow. Something about the way the animal looked at him had stalled his hand, and before he knew it, the stag had disappeared into the maze of trees.

Father Carden had been furious, but Lancelot did not regret what he did—or, rather, what he did not. He still did not regret his actions even when the Paladin forced Lancelot to whip himself. 

Ever since that day, Lancelot stopped hunting had not gone hunting for animals. Instead, he had hunted the Fey.

There was a rustling sound in the brush beside him, and Lancelot didn’t think twice before flinging a small knife into the shrubbery. Oh, how far he had come. 

Would Father Carden be proud? The thought made his blood run grow cold, and so he distracted himself with finding his target in the brush.

It was a rabbit, barely larger than his hand. Lancelot’s tiny knife was lodged in its tiny back. It appeared to be dead already, the life gone from of its round, black eyes. An image of the white stag flashed across his vision, and he shook his head to rid himself of the memory. 

Burying his discomfort, Lancelot removed his knife from the rabbit and wiped it clean on his cloak. It only took him a few more tries to secure another rabbit, this one larger than the last. 

Satisfied that this would be enough, he made his way back to camp, ignoring the uneasiness in his heart.

He returned to find that Nimue had constructed a fire. Squirrel was tending to the flames as Nimue plucked ripe apples from a tree that had definitely not borne fruit an hour ago. She caught him staring and he quickly glanced away, deciding that it was pointless to wonder; this woman could apparently do anything—making fruit appear on a fruitless tree was something she probably did in her sleep.

Lancelot set the rabbits down next to the fire and began to skin them. The process was slow, but it gave him a distraction from his thoughts, which had been louder than usual. 

_You can’t hide what you are forever_ , his subconscious—which sounded suspiciously oddly like the voice of Father Carden—whispered. _You’re a beast, and therefore, you are damned_.

Once he was finished skinning the animals, Lancelot fashioned a spit and roasted them over the fire. He caught Squirrel watching him out of the corner of his eye, and he gave the boy a small smile. 

Encouraged, Squirrel stood and made his way over to the log Lancelot was using as a bench.

“Do you do this often?” the boy asked, his eyes on the flames stretching into the sky.

Lancelot felt Nimue’s gaze on them as he answered, “Not exactly. Someone else usually does this for me.” 

It was true—in the Paladin camps, Lancelot never cooked his own meals; they were prepared for him. Cooking was something Father Carden refused to teach him. In hindsight, Lancelot figured that the Paladin didn’t actually know how to cook, and didn’t want to be embarrassed by his lack of knowledge. 

Nevertheless, when he was younger, Lancelot often sneaked into the kitchens. He tried to offer his help to the cooks, but they always turned him away with disgust written across their features. 

There was one soldier, however, that allowed Lancelot to watch him while he roasted an animal over a fire. He had even let Lancelot try it for himself, had taught him how to steady his hands, and rotate the spit. It was the only experience the Monk had had with cooking, or with kindness. 

“Oh,” said Squirrel, bringing Lancelot back to the present.

“That must have been nice,” Nimue said from across the fire. The waves of heat contorted her face, but not even that could make her less lovely. “I suppose you get certain privileges with the more Fey that you murder in cold blood.” 

There it was. Realistically, Lancelot knew that it would have to be brought up at some point, but he had deluded himself into thinking it would be far in the future. 

He should have known—he was never that lucky.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I should never have followed Father Carden.” 

_Nothing you could say would make me trust you._

Nimue scoffed. “I don’t understand. You murder countless Fey and then just expect to be forgiven? For us to welcome you into our ranks? For the people whose families and homes that you burned to forget what you have done?” 

_You burn their homes. You slay their mother and their fathers. And you watch your Red brothers run them down on horses. And you see it all through those weeping eyes. That makes you guilty._

“No.” Lancelot shook his head. “Nothing I can do will ever be enough to repent for what I have done.” 

Her eyes bore into his, blue orbs the brightest fire, the most consuming waves. “You say that now, but are you sorry enough to become my prisoner?”

Lancelot blinked, the question catching him off guard. Though she didn’t sound entirely serious, it made him think. Leaving the Red Paladins was the best choice he ever could have made—for both himself and the Fey—but that didn’t mean he wanted to give up his newfound freedom for different chains. 

In his silence, Nimue continued. “I thought not.”

“I do not wish to be your prisoner, but I will offer you my service,” Lancelot said instead. “I can fight. For you, for the Fey.” 

_You could be our greatest warrior_.

“Even if I let you join us, what makes you think that anyone would fight beside you? What makes you think you can be forgiven?”

“I would not blame them if they couldn’t forgive me,” Lancelot said. “I would not forgive me either.”

 _I reach out and there is only darkness_.

Lancelot finished roasting the rabbit meat and cut it up into equal portions. He handed Squirrel his ration and stood to give Nimue hers. His eyes were downcast, unable to meet her gaze. No words were exchanged, but she gave him a nod of acknowledgment. It was more than he deserved.

They ate in silence. 

When they all were finished, Lancelot gave Squirrel his cloak to use as a pillow. The boy took it with a mumbled “thanks” and moved off to another fallen log farther away from the fire. When Lancelot turned his attention back to Nimue, he found that she was already looking at him. 

She glanced away and shook her head slightly. “I’m going to gather more firewood,” she said unceremoniously before rising and grabbing a piece of burning wood to use as a torch. She headed into the forest without saying another word.

In the moments after she left, the darkness seemed to close around him. When he was younger, Lancelot had been afraid of the dark—until he had learned that it was the least of his problems. The dark was not as scary once you yourself became something to fear.

“Please—”

Lancelot’s head snapped up at the sound, and his gaze landed on Squirrel. The boy was curled in on himself, mumbling in his sleep. Every so often, he fidgeted, as if he was trying to escape from his subconscious. But, up until then, he had not spoken. The dreams must have gotten worse. 

“Please, don’t”—a thrash—“don’t hurt them!” Squirrel cried out, his eyes squeezed shut. “ _Please_ —” A sob tore loose from his throat. “ _Stop it!_ ” 

The boy’s nightmare was a painful reminder of the terrors that plagued Lancelot’s sleep. His past never left him, his ghosts were a part of him. Those he had killed were tethered to his mind, a permanent reminder of what he had done to his own kind in the name of a god he did not believe in.

The boy’s hands grabbed at the dirt floor beneath him as tears streamed down his face, and before Lancelot had a chance to think, he was up and at Squirrel's side. 

“Wake up,” he murmured, lightly shaking the boy’s shoulders. “Percival, wake up, it’s just a dream.” 

Squirrel’s eyes shot open and he scrambled away from Lancelot. His chest was heaving and his pupils were blown wide as he took in his surroundings.

Lancelot remained where he was, barely moving, hardly breathing. He raised his hands as if to placate a wild animal—and then cursed himself for making the comparison. _Percival was not an animal_ , he reminded himself, _and neither are you_. It was a difficult habit to break, beaten into him by Father Carden so thoroughly that it was near impossible to remember what it was like without the older man’s voice inside his head.

 _The Fey are dangerous beasts_ , Carden had said. _And beasts have no reason_. 

Lancelot grit his teeth and tried to clear his mind, if not for his sake, then for Squirrel’s. The boy was still staring at him and breathing hard; the dream had not yet left him. 

Addressing the boy, his voice was soft as he said, “You’re safe now. It was just a nightmare.”

Squirrel looked away and rubbed furiously at his eyes, almost as if he was ashamed to be seen crying. 

A hollow ring of familiarity resonated through Lancelot. When he was not much older than Squirrel, he had been forced to hide his tears from Father Carden for fear of what the Paladin would do. 

He remembered distinctly one night when he had been haunted by a night terror. Carden had heard his screams and had come to his tent, a whip in hand.

 _Do not be scared_ , _boy_ , he had said as he handed the whip to Lancelot. _The Lord will cleanse you of your pain, just as you must cleanse yourself_.

Lancelot had been expected to whip himself over a nightmare he could not control, and so he had. He was seven at the time, a mere child. But Father Carden hadn’t cared, just as he had not cared when his Paladins murdered Fey children. They were beasts in his eyes, animals that needed to be cleansed from the earth. 

But it was only now that Lancelot realized that perhaps Carden had not wanted to see that the Fey had hearts, just as humans did. Perhaps he had wanted to remain in ignorance, content with the false belief that the Fey were solely animals without feeling.

“It’s alright,” Lancelot found himself saying, “I have nightmares, too.” 

Squirrel’s eyes assessed him, but, after a moment, he mumbled, “I had a dream about my parents.”

Lancelot blinked up at the boy from where he was crouched. “Oh” was all he could say.

Squirrel clenched his fists and drew his brows together as he studied the fire burning low. Shadows danced across the clearing and made the boy appear older than he was, more burdened by the life he hadn’t yet had the chance to live.

“The Red Paladins killed them,” Squirrel said, voice barely above a whisper.

Lancelot moved to sit on a fallen log and motioned for the boy to join him. Hesitant, Squirrel moved to sit, albeit on the other side of the log. Though it should have stung, Lancelot knew that the boy’s reluctancy stemmed from a valid place—Lancelot had been among the Red Paladins only days prior. 

He could understand Squirrel’s unease in his presence, perhaps better than anyone. When he had been a child, stolen from his home, Lancelot would dream of his parents at night. They were kind and they had loved him. And Father Carden had stormed into his village and he had killed them in the name of God.

Squirrel had every right to be wary of Lancelot. 

He mulled over his words before he spoke. “The Red Paladins killed my parents, too.” 

“Then why would you join them?” Squirrel’s brow furrowed in confusion.

Why indeed. If Lancelot had been asked that same question three days ago, he would not have hesitated in his answer.

Lancelot watched the flames lick up into the sky, greedily stealing oxygen to fuel themselves. He felt the heat of the fire that burned his village, felt it sear his skin. “I was afraid.” 

“You’re the Weeping Monk—the most infamous Paladin there is. Why were you afraid of them?” Squirrel asked.

“Not of them.” 

“Of who, then?”

Lancelot shifted under the boy’s scrutiny. He forced the words past his lips. “Father Carden.” 

“Why do you call him father?”

Lancelot shrugged. “It is his title.” 

But that wasn’t the entire truth, was it? Carden was the closest thing Lancelot had to a father. Yes, it was messed up, but he could not change the fact that Carden had been a prominent figure for nearly his entire life. 

“I was younger than you are now when the Red Paladins killed my parents and burned my village.” He paused and looked over at Squirrel, who had shifted closer, not quite as afraid as he had been before. “Fa—Carden took me under his wing and molded me into a weapon. I never thought to leave, and even if I did, I had nowhere to go.”

Squirrel broke a twig off of the log they sat on and fiddled with it. “You could have used your ability to find one of our villages, you know.” 

Lancelot’s smile was grim. “And you think that they would welcome me with open arms? After everything I’ve done?” 

_You murder countless Fey and then just expect to be forgiven? For us to welcome you into our ranks? For the people whose families and homes that you burned to forget what you have done?_

“They would not have turned you away,” Squirrel said. “We Fey have to stick together.” 

_All Fey are brothers. Even the lost ones._

A pang of regret echoed in his chest, remorse for not saving the Green Knight when he had had the chance. And now it was too late.

Neither Lancelot nor Squirrel said anything more, the crackling of the fire the only sound to disrupt the silence of the dark.

A twig snapped. 

Lancelot was on his feet in a second, his sword drawn and eyes surveying the woods beyond their tiny encampment. The arm not holding his sword was outstretched in Squirrel’s direction, willing the boy to remain behind him.

“It’s just me,” said a decidedly feminine voice. 

He blinked. _Nimue_. 

The Fey Queen stepped out of the shadows and into the light of the fire. In her arms, she held a stack of twigs and broken branches. She was staring at the two of them with an odd look on her face.

Lancelot sheathed his sword and resumed his seat on the log, wincing at the pain of his wounds now that the burst of adrenaline was gone. 

Nimue dumped the wood she had gathered into a pile and slowly fed each individual branch into the fire. She did not look up at him, nor did she say a word. 

“I know you don’t trust me, but I made a choice,” Lancelot said, breaking the silence. “I’m going to fight for the Fey—for you.”

The young queen only stared at him, her face betraying nothing. And then she nodded, once, before standing and walking over to him.

Lancelot tensed, expecting her to unsheath her sword and point it at him as she had when they first met. Perhaps she had come to the conclusion during her hunt for firewood that he was better off dead. 

But Nimue did not unsheath her sword; she didn’t even appear to be angry.

Her gaze was soft as she sat by Lancelot’s other side. “You’re wounded,” she said, nodding toward him. “I found some ingredients for a Fey remedy while I was looking for firewood. I thought you could use them.”

Lancelot did not know what to say, and so he said nothing. He only nodded his assent and positioned himself so that his body was turned toward her.

“They really did a number on you, didn’t they?” Nimue asked, taking the medicinal supplies out of her pockets and lining them up on the log between the two of them. “I’m not saying you didn’t deserve it, but this . . . is a little extreme.” 

A slight breeze passed through their camp and caught in her hair. The light from the fire illuminated her in an almost ethereal glow. When he had first seen her on the battlefield, Lancelot had thought she was beautiful, but it was only then that he realized exactly _how_ beautiful she was.

Whatever he had been about to say caught in his throat.

“Yeah, they did.” Squirrel spoke up from behind him. “The Trinity Guard beat him up, but Lancelot got ‘em back for it.”

There was a hint of excitement in his voice as if the boy were reliving the adrenaline-fueled fight. Lancelot was not sure if it was a good or bad thing for the boy to be as enthusiastic as he was, but he supposed that worrying about it could wait. 

“Why do they call you the Weeping Monk instead of your name?” Nimue asked as she mashed plant roots and moss together. 

_Beasts don’t deserve names_ , Father Carden’s voice had said.

Lancelot swallowed. “Would it have made a difference?” He looked up at her, not sure when he had stopped. “Would you have taken pity on me if your Fey had been fighting a man and not a beast?” 

Her eyes tightened. She was the one to glance away this time. “No,” she murmured. “I suppose not.” 

Nimue gently applied some of the green mush to a particularly deep cut on his forehead, and Lancelot clenched his jaw to keep from flinching. He couldn't remember the last time he had been touched with such kindness—it was foreign; new, but not bad. 

He watched her as she worked, observed the tiny crease in her brow and the subtle purse of her lips. The way she cared for him after threatening to kill him only a day before gave him whiplash, but he found that he did not mind the change. 

When she leaned in to press more of the remedy to his cheekbone, he couldn’t help but take in her scent: apple blossom and pine and the air before it rains.

“Done,” Nimue said at last. “That should heal some of the deeper cuts, or at least make them more shallow. Leave them on until the morning.” 

He blinked himself out of his reverie. “Thank you,” he breathed. 

Nimue only nodded and gathered her things, before heading back to the opposite side of the fire.

Lancelot let out a deep breath and ignored the look Squirrel was giving him. 

“Go to sleep,” he ordered the boy, who only rolled his eyes in return. But it did the trick—Squirrel shuffled back into his previous spot on the ground and left Lancelot alone to contemplate.

Nimue rested her back against a tree trunk and said to Lancelot, “If you so much as move against us while we’re vulnerable, I will kill you.” 

Though he didn’t doubt that she would follow through with it, her voice wasn’t as serious as it had been the first time she threatened him. 

“I would expect nothing less from the Wolf-Blood Witch,” Lancelot said. 

Nimue nodded, satisfied, and closed her eyes. 

Lancelot settled back against the trunk of a tree despite knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink; his mind was alive—the good kind of alive—for the first time in years. He did not think that he would ever feel completely safe, but he felt safer at that moment than he had in his entire life despite being threatened by the most powerful woman on the planet. 

When he was sure that Nimue was asleep—and the gentle rise and fall of her chest indicated that she was—Lancelot murmured a soft “thank you” into the night air. 

Perhaps for the first time in a long while, he felt that he was on the right path.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry this took so long! i got caught up with school and words just weren't working. i hope you enjoyed! rant to me in the comments abt what you want in season two!
> 
> with @acosmiclove's permission, i used her hc for squirrel's nightmare scene. find her on twt and ao3 with that user! :)
> 
> an yeah lancelot def has to work through some of his problems, esp when it comes to "what he deserves" bc we all know that he deserves the world he just has to see it :')


	4. Chapter 4

“We have to go to her,” Merlin said, determined.

Morgana merely shook her head. She had just been explaining how Nimue was still alive and had not even finished before Merlin was up and ready to leave. She could feel the anticipation radiating off of him, could see the overwhelming relief in his eyes. But this was something he had to do without her. 

“You will go alone,” Morgana said, albeit regretfully. “The dead are calling me. I have avoided them for too long.” 

It was true. Ever since she had taken the Widow’s life, the dead had been summoning her, reaching out for her guidance. It had been manageable, at first, but was now so persistent that she could hardly form a coherent thought without being bombarded by the need to do her job. 

_Her job_. She held back an agonized sob. She would never be free to live her own life or make her own choices again.

 _There is always a choice_ , a voice in the back of her mind whispered. _You_ chose _to kill the Widow_. 

Morgana hated to admit it, but that tiny seedling of darkness in her mind was right: this was entirely her fault and she was going to have to live with that. 

Merlin nodded, once. If anyone could understand what she was going through besides the other Daughters of Death, it would be him—he had been friends with one, after all. The one Morgana had killed.

She took in an unsteady breath. 

“Morgana,” he started, his eyes sad, “you don’t have to do this alone. Let me help you.”

That gave Morgana pause. It was not what she had expected, but it was exactly what she wanted to hear—someone was willing to take her side, guide her through this new life. But then an image of her slicing the Sword of Power through the Widow flashed in front of her eyes, and she was left feeling ashamed for even considering the magician’s proposition. Morgana could not accept Merlin’s help; this was _her_ burden to bear, not his. 

The voices in her head grew louder, more demanding. Morgana made herself turn away. 

“I’m fine. You do not need to worry about me,” she said. 

There was shuffling behind her. She could feel Merlin moving to look out the window. “I _do_ worry about you, though. This burden—”

“Is mine to bear,” Morgana interrupted. “This is who I am now.”

 _We can’t run from our true nature_. Those were the words Morgana had said to Nimue what seemed like a lifetime ago. 

Maybe this was what Morgana truly was, what she was always meant to be. And if it was, then she had to stomach this curse alone.

“I need to stop running from this.”

Merlin spoke again, and this time his voice was closer. “Let me help you, young one.”

Morgana squeezed her eyes shut against the torrent of whispering, begging, berating of the dying. She put her hands on either side of her head as if she could physically restrain the voices screaming at her to help them.

“Morgana, just let me ease this pain. Let me help in any way I can.”

She whirled. “I have to do this alone, Merlin. No one can do it for me. I alone made this choice so I alone must dig my grave.” 

The irony wasn’t lost on either of them. Morgana would never have a grave, she would never have a mortal death. One stupid mistake had cost her _everything_. 

“ _Cailleach_ got in your head. _She_ was the one who made you kill the Widow.” Merlin put a hand on her shoulder. When had he gotten so close? “Stop blaming yourself for something you couldn’t control.”

She turned to him. “But that’s the thing—I wanted to kill her. I was angry and I wanted someone to hurt as I was hurting. I punished her for my pain.”

Merlin didn’t have anything to say to that.

Morgana knew that Merlin had his own daughter, his own life. She couldn’t make it more complicated than it already was, despite everything in her that ached for someone to care for her.

She and Arthur had lost their father when they were young. Arthur would say that it had affected him the most, but he had only lost his father—Morgana had lost her entire life. The church had taken her in, but it wasn’t what she had wanted. She had wanted her dad, had wanted someone to care about her, and tell her everything would be okay. 

Arthur had lost his father, but he still had his freedom. He had the opportunity to find someone who could care about him. He could make his own decisions. 

Morgana felt like a child again. Her life was no longer her own, and just like before, she was forced to serve a higher purpose. No one cared about her then, and it was too dangerous for anyone to care about her now. 

Reluctantly, Morgana shrugged off Merlin’s hand. “I need to leave and you need to find your daughter.” 

“Morgana—”

But Morgana would not listen. If she let Merlin talk her into opening up, into letting him into her life . . . it wouldn’t be fair to him _or_ Nimue. 

“Good luck, Merlin,” she interrupted, before disappearing into thin air. 

* * *

The voices dragged Morgana all across the kingdom, but the most notable place she traveled to was King Cumber’s encampment. 

She had appeared in the medical wing—a series of white tents that reeked of death, a scent she had gotten used to throughout the day. Inside one of the tents, there were rows and rows of sick beds.

Morgana stopped at the foot of a dying man’s cot. It was the last cot in the row, separated from the rest by a single sheet. The sheets were coarse and dotted with holes and patches of blood. She made herself look at the body under those sheets, made herself take note of the deep gash in his side that seemed to be infected. His eyelids fluttered with each stilted, shallow breath he took. His braided hair was matted with blood and there were cuts and bruises covering his face. 

_He must have been in a battle of some sort_ , Morgana deduced idly, though she hadn’t heard of any fight recently. She wanted to inquire about what had happened but decided against it. It would be cruel to ask the man and then take his life. 

Burying her curiosity, Morgana leaned closer to the man and searched for his Cord. 

Through Merlin, she had learned that each soul had a tether to the earth, called a Cord. Each Cord that she took fueled her, made her stronger. 

_It is to restore the natural order of things_ , he had reasoned. _The Daughters aren’t power-hungry; they just serve to balance the world_.

But Morgana had shaken her head, had moaned, _I don’t want this, I don’t want this_ , over and over again. Merlin had taken her into his arms and had held her as she cried. 

_I know_ , he had murmured, comforting her as best he could. _I know_.

Blinking past the memory, Morgana found the dying man’s Cord and claimed it for herself. When she pulled on the tether, the results were almost instantaneous. There was a rush of power, unlike anything she had experienced while she had been mortal. It was overwhelming. She wanted more. Her blood sang with the feeling—and then ran cold when she remembered what she had done. What she had been doing for the entire day. 

A final sigh left the man’s lips and his body relaxed. 

Morgana had cried the first time she had taken a life. She did not cry now. That numb feeling overtook her, and she just . . . stared at the body before her, not really seeing it. The power she had stolen from him ran through her veins, intoxicating her.

In the back of her mind, Morgana knew that what she was doing was wrong, but it was so hard to think of anything else besides the power she felt after she absorbed someone’s Cord.

What was she becoming?

At the end of the hall, the tent flap opened to reveal a burly man with a metal plate attached to his right temple. King Cumber. A woman—Lady Eydis, Morgana assumed—and a soldier followed Cumber into the tent, heading right for Morgana. 

But they passed right by her, as if she was not there at all, and stopped at the dead man’s cot.

“You should have told me he was dying,” grumbled Cumber. 

The soldier grimaced. “I did, my lord.” 

“He’s not dying—he’s dead.” The woman’s nose turned up at the sight. “You didn’t say he was dead.” 

The soldier's eyes widened and he froze. “No,” he breathed. He looked like he wanted to move toward his dead comrade but held back at the last moment. His gaze shot to Cumber. “My lord, I swear to you he was alive only moments ago.”

“Who is to verify your story now?” Cumber lamented.

“You must believe me,” the soldier said. “The Fey are still out there, on the beach. We can send soldiers in and finish what we started.” 

Eydis stepped toward Cumber, her mouth in a firm line. “Father, we must trust him. If the Fey remain here, then they are a threat to you. The only reason they would stay would be to put Nimue on the throne.” 

Cumber’s brows furrowed. “I was under the impression that Uther took her prisoner.” 

“He did,” she asserted, “but she escaped. We don’t know where she went, but we have to assume that she found the Fey.” 

“Sir?” the soldier spoke up, nervous. When Cumber only raised a brow, he continued. “You should also know that the Red Spear and her raiders aided the Fey in their efforts.” 

Anger erupted across Cumber’s face. “How _dare_ she interfere with my plans. She knows how much this means to me. To _us_.” He paused, expression darkening as he turned to his daughter. “Your sister needs to be put in her place.”

“She is not my sister. Not anymore,” Eydis said with finality. “And if she is working with the Fey, that also makes her traitor.” 

Toying with his beard, Cumber murmured, “She must be plotting against me.” He glanced up at Eydis. “We must get that sword before she does.” 

“My thoughts exactly,” Eydis said. 

“My lord?” the soldier asked. “Should I have the troops deploy to the beach?” 

Morgana held her breath, though she knew they wouldn’t be able to hear her even if she screamed. 

After a moment of contemplation, Cumber said, “Yes. Send them out and get me that sword.” 

_No_. If the soldier was telling the truth and the Fey were still at the beach, then Morgana had to warn them. And fast. 

* * *

Most of the next day consisted of strategizing in the newly-declared war room—a small, hollowed-out crevice in the caverns big enough for a dozen people to convene. Empty crates brought in by the Red Spear’s crew were pushed together to serve as a table. Those that comprised the tight-knit circle of leaders huddled over the maps strewn across the crates. 

Voices shouted over each other, echoing off of the walls of the crowded space. No one could agree on anything, let alone listen to anyone besides themselves. Arthur hadn’t had a chance to get a word in since they had begun the meeting.

Six raiders including the Red Spear, and five Fey, with the addition of Arthur, were included in the assembly; Arthur and the Red Spear had thought that it would be advantageous if they showed solidarity between the raiders and the Fey. Emphasis on _had_. 

“We must attack _now_!” a raider shouted. 

“Only if we want to be _slaughtered_ ,” contradicted a Fey woman with branches in her hair. “We’re not ready—there are not enough of us to take on two armies at once.” 

Another raider slammed her open palms on the table. “Uther won’t attack us if we attack Cumber.”

“No, he will wait to eradicate us until after we’ve dealt with Cumber. That way, he’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone,” a Fey man argued. 

Arthur shot the Red Spear a glance over the din. She looked as tired as he felt. They had been at this for hours now, but the exact same ideas were rehashed again and again.

“This isn’t helping,” Kaze muttered at his side. 

Arthur looked to the Fey warrior with tired eyes. “I don’t know what to do.” 

He watched as the Red Spear sighed. Her brow creased and she pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Pym burst into the room, panting.

“Pym?” Arthur raised his eyebrows. Silence descended around the cave, and he was suddenly grateful for the intervention. “What’s wrong?”

Pym shook her head and bent over, hands on her knees. She held up one finger. “Give me a second,” she huffed. 

“Pym—” started the Red Spear, no doubt incensed at the interruption. 

“It’s Morgana,” Pym breathed. “She’s _here_.”

Arthur froze, along with the rest of the gathered strategizers. He had been so caught up with saving the Fey and planning to defeat Cumber that he had forgotten his sister.

Guilt seized his heart.

The Red Spear was the first to regain her senses. “Who’s Morgana?”

Arthur was already moving toward the door, but he looked back over his shoulder to address her when he said, “She’s my sister.” 

Pym bit her lip and wrung her hands together. “Arthur, there’s something you need to know.” 

His brow furrowed. “Can it wait? I want to make sure Morgana is alright.” 

“Yep, yeah, that's what I need to talk to you about.” Pym glanced over his shoulder at the gathered crowd. “Maybe you should just see for yourself.” 

That didn’t sound good.

“Okay?” Arthur said, but it came out as a question. He met the Red Spear’s eyes. “Can you handle this?” 

The Red Spear gave him a look that said “did we handle it before?” but nodded nonetheless. “Go to her.” 

Arthur gave her a grateful nod and followed Pym out of the caverns. 

The sun was already descending toward the horizon, painting the waves of the ocean with fire. A few raiders and Fey hung around the beach, but for the most part, it was empty and allowed for Arthur to zero in on a figure in all black.

When Pym saw him staring, she said, “That’s her. She’s . . . changed.” 

Arthur didn’t comment, just continued forward. He didn’t want to think of the implications of Pym’s words until absolutely necessary. When they were only a few strides away from Morgana, the woman in question turned to face them. 

A black veil covered her features, one she quickly threw back over her head. On the surface, nothing about her—save her dark garb—seemed different. That was, until Arthur saw her eyes. 

They held a depthless well of sorrow and pain, and antiquity to them that hadn’t been there before. Grief was etched in the downward curve of her mouth, in the crease of her brow. Where there had been a fiery spirit, there was only devastation. 

_She’s . . . changed._

“Arthur,” Morgana said, halting his observations. 

“Morgana, what happened—”

She didn’t let him finish. “There’s no time. Cumber is sending an army here as we speak; you need to prepare.”

The abrupt news took his breath away and it was only by sheer luck that his heart didn’t stop right then and there. 

“No,” he breathed. 

They were nowhere near ready for another attack. There were more wounded Fey than those that could fight, and even though there were plenty of raiders who were itching for another battle, Arthur knew their numbers were too few to take on an army.

Arthur shared a worried glance with Pym, whose eyes were wide open in fear. She knew as well as he that if they stayed, it would be a bloodbath and that this time, they would not be the victors. 

His eyes snapped to Morgana’s own. “How much time do we have?”

Morgana grimaced. “A couple of hours at most. It should give you enough time to escape.”

Arthur shook his head. He didn’t understand. “Why would they send another army? We killed all of the soldiers who were sent here.” 

“Not all of them,” murmured Morgana, regret tinging her voice. “There were two that escaped. Cumber thinks that Nimue and the Red Spear plan to dethrone him.” She placed both hands on Arthur’s shoulders and squeezed. “But none of that matters right now—you need to warn the others.” 

Arthur paused. “How could Nimue dethrone him? Doesn’t he know of the bargain she made?”

Morgana pursed her lips, almost as if she was reluctant to tell him. “She escaped, and she’s heading here now.” 

Relief flooded through his system in a tidal wave. Nimue was alive; she had escaped Uther and _she was alive_. She was heading toward the beach and Arthur was going to see her soon and they could be together—

“How do you know this?” 

Her expression shuttered. “There’s no time.” Arthur opened his mouth to object, to demand answers, and she amended, “Later, I promise.”

“How am I going to explain this to them if you don’t give me something to work with?”

“Now is not the time, Arthur. You just have to trust me.”

Arthur sighed in defeat. “Fine. But—”

“I promise you I’ll explain everything after you save the Fey.” Her eyes implored him to drop the subject. “ _Please_.”

It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but they were already pressed for time as it was. “Alright.” Arthur nodded. He started back toward the caves with Pym in tow, heart in his throat. 

How was he going to explain this to the Red Spear and the rest of their makeshift council? _Oh, hey, by the way, my sister just appeared out of the blue and said that Cumber is going to attack us. Please don’t freak out._

When he realized that Morgana wasn’t following him, he stopped and turned back to her. “Won’t you help us?” 

Morgana shook her head slightly. “They need your leadership, Arthur. If I was there, it wouldn’t change anything. They need _you_.”

Arthur couldn’t help the swell of pride inside his chest. Even after everything, his sister still believed in him. 

“Besides, there’s something I must do first,” she answered. And then, to Arthur’s bewilderment, she disappeared into thin air.

He whipped to face Pym, who didn’t look nearly as shocked as he felt was appropriate. “What was that?” 

“I told you that she changed.”

“I—” Arthur started, then decided that there were more pressing matters than his sister’s newfound abilities. “Nevermind.”

They made their way back into the hollowed-out crevice of the meeting room in silence, both too nervous to say much. 

They returned to find the makeshift council much the same as they had left it. Everyone was arguing, back and forth, back and forth over nonsense that didn’t even matter in the light of Morgana’s new information. Maybe bringing this up with the group first was a bad idea—maybe they should go to the Red Spear before opening this up to a dozen differing opinions.

But before Arthur could give voice to his concerns, Pym was already talking. 

“Everyone quiet!” she shouted over the din. All at once, every voice in the room ceased in order to listen—which Arthur would admit was an admirable quality had he not been trying to signal to Pym to _stop talking_. Pym continued, oblivious to his silent pleas. “King Cumber is sending more soldiers here to attack us. We only have a couple of hours.”

Chaos erupted. The raiders stood up so fast from their seats that the crates they used as chairs were knocked over; the Fey were already trying to dominate the debate on how they should move forward. Across the room, the Red Spear’s face was ashen. 

Arthur was about to go to her, but she was already moving toward him. When she reached him, the Red Spear shoved him out of the hollow and into the larger part of the cave. Her eyes were wide in apprehension and a little bit of anger, and Arthur rushed to explain for fear that that anger was directed at him. 

“I can explain,” he whispered. There was no one within hearing-distance, but Arthur still kept his voice down in case of his words echoing. 

The Red Spear narrowed her eyes and matched his tone, though with much more hostility. “Well, I would hope so, considering you just announced to a group of nonfunctional military personnel that we’re going to be attacked by my father in a few short hours.” 

Arthur’s mouth was dry as he floundered for words. The Red Spear’s eyebrows rose as she prompted, “Well?” 

“Well, Morgana didn’t say much except that a few soldiers escaped from our skirmish and reported back to Cumber. That’s why they’re attacking.” He paused, waiting for the Red Spear’s reaction. When she didn’t speak, just stared, waiting for him to continue, Arthur said, “We have to run. We can’t fight our way out of this.”

“I’m not running. Not again,” she said, her tone icy. 

“We don’t have a choice this time. We’re not in any fighting shape.” 

The Red Spear closed her eyes. “I can’t admit defeat. He already sees me as weak.” 

Arthur didn’t ask who she was referring to, but instead reasoned, “It’s not just you that you have to worry about. Both the raiders and the Fey are counting on you.” 

It was a moment before the Red Spear sighed in defeat. She glanced up and met Arthur’s eyes before giving a single nod. “You’re right. We have to run.” 

“And I have to stay behind.”

“What?” she snapped. “What do you mean you’re staying behind? What did you mean before when you said that ‘we can’t fight our way out of this’? Are you trying to be a martyr, Arthur, is that what you’re doing?”

Arthur could only blink at her rant. “No, Red, I . . . Nimue is alive, and she’s coming here. If we’re all gone, then she’ll think that we left on those ships.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m so close to seeing her again. I have to be there for her.” 

The Red Spear could only blink. Finally, she said, “Okay. Fine. But we’re not sending anyone back to check on you, you understand? You’ll have to find your way to us on your own.” 

Arthur nodded, solemn, and released a breath. “What should we tell them?” 

The Red Spear rolled her shoulders back and said, “Tell them to prepare their belongings. We leave in half an hour.” 

* * *

Nimue was not sure what to make of the Monk. 

It was something she had overheard the night before that made her question if her assumptions about him had been made in haste.

After collecting firewood, she had stopped at the edge of the clearing, having heard voices. Intrigued, she had paused and observed as the Monk comforted Squirrel. But she quickly realized that the Monk was being a lot more open with the boy, even going as far as to tell him about his past. 

_The Red Paladins killed my parents and burned my village_. _Fa—Carden took me under his wing and molded me into a weapon. I never thought to leave, and even if I did, I had nowhere to go._

 _You could have used your ability to find one of our villages, you know_ , Squirrel had mumbled.

That had given Nimue pause. His ability? She had heard that the Monk was a good tracker, but she hadn’t attributed it to anything other than practice. 

_And you think that they would welcome me with open arms? After everything I’ve done?_ The Monk’s tone had been self-deprecating, but Nimue knew he was right.

The Fey Queen would not welcome him, the warrior who had to keep her people safe would not welcome him. But between the moment she had met him and now, something had changed. There was more to the Monk than she had thought. 

The sun was just coming up over the horizon and they had just finished readying themselves to finish their journey. 

But something was weighing on her mind, something Squirrel had said about the Monk’s ability. She couldn’t shake the thought away, so after the fire had been put out and Squirrel had been hauled onto the horse, Nimue decided to confront him about it.

“Monk,” she said, addressing him.

His eyes snapped to hers and his jaw worked as if he was deliberating something. Finally, he spoke. “I would rather you call me by my real name.” 

“Oh, alright then.” Nimue blinked, a little taken aback. “Lancelot, I want to try something.” 

The Monk looked at her warily but didn’t object as she stepped forward. His eyes tracked her until there was only a foot of space between them. 

Hesitant, Nimue took his hand in hers, noting how large it was in comparison before quickly dismissing the thought.

She closed her eyes and called out the Hidden. Their power rose within her, and suddenly, she was connected to everything around her. She could feel the life of the soil beneath her feet, could feel the gentle drumming of thousands of heartbeats coming from the animals in the surrounding area. 

But Nimue pushed through all of the nuances for something specific, something she was not entirely sure was even there.

And then she felt it: a soft inkling that slowly became an overwhelming sensation. It was coming from right in front of her—from _the Monk_. His connection to the Hidden matched her own, but unlike hers, it was buried deep within him, recoiling from her prodding. 

Nimue pulled back and opened her eyes to find the scars under the Monk’s eyes glowing gold. As the Hidden retreated, the glow faded.

“Why?” she demanded. “Why lie about that?”

The Monk glanced away, his face a careful mask.

“Lie about what?” Squirrel asked from his seat atop the horse. “What’s going on?” 

“Your friend here is Fey,” Nimue said without breaking eye-contact with the Monk. 

Silence, and then—

“Oh, yeah.” 

Nimue whirled. “ _You knew?_ ” 

Squirrel shrunk in the saddle.

“You didn’t think this piece of information would be of interest to me?” 

“It wasn’t my secret to tell.” Squirrel crossed his arms, indignant. 

Nimue sighed and turned back to Lancelot. “I can understand why Squirrel wouldn’t tell me, but why wouldn’t you?” 

“Would it have made a difference?” 

Would it have made a difference? Would you have taken pity on me if your Fey had been fighting a man and not a beast?

No, she had said. I suppose not.

This time, Nimue remained silent. 

The Monk’s gaze was far away. “I thought you would hate me more than you already do since I’ve hunted and killed my own kind. Isn’t that worse than me being human?”

She wasn’t sure what was worse—fighting a nameless monster or fighting one of your own kind. How could you forgive someone for murdering their own people, those they should have protected? How could you forgive someone for going against everything you stood for? 

Nimue did not have an answer, and she wasn’t sure that she ever would. 

She did not say anything for a few moments, just analyzed his face, his scars. When she spoke, all she said was, “What clan are you from?” 

His voice was quiet when he said, “The Ash People.”

Nimue remembered her mother telling her about how the Red Paladins had wiped out the Ash People long ago. She was not sure if she should comfort him or leave him to rot in silence—after the Paladins had murdered his people, how could he have joined them? 

“How old were you, when it happened?” She didn’t know why she needed to know; it wouldn’t absolve him of his crimes. But nevertheless, she wanted an answer.

The Monk deliberated for a few moments, before finally bringing his eyes up to hers. “Old enough.” 

Nimue shut her eyes against the blue of his eyes. She wasn’t sure what she expected. It was not like knowing how old he was would change anything, but it might have made things less tense between them if she was given the opportunity to _understand_. 

The crunching of boots against leaves echoed through the forest. Nimue ripped her eyes open and spun around toward the noise. She caught a glimpse of red through the foliage, and she cursed under her breath. She didn’t have her sword, but she had one of the Paladin swords. It would have to do. 

Her gaze cut to the Monk, anger rising. “Did you lead them here?” 

“I didn’t, I swear.” He looked genuine, but Nimue was only reminded that he was a Paladin himself only a few days before. 

She raised her sword to his throat. 

* * *

“How do I know you’re not lying?” she snarled, voice low and dangerous.

Lancelot’s gaze flicked to the flashes of red robes through the trees. It would only be a few moments until they were discovered. He had to think fast. 

“I can prove myself to you,” he started. “Stay with Percival while I dispatch them.”

“Oh, you’re giving _me_ orders now?”

Lancelot fought to keep his tone controlled. “Just trust me.” 

“That’s not happening.” 

He worked his jaw, eyes trained on the Paladins heading their way. They would be upon them any second now. 

An image of Squirrel’s broken body and lifeless eyes flashed through his mind’s eye. Lancelot could not let that happen. He _couldn’t_. He would not be able to live with himself if something happened to the boy, not after everything they had been through together. 

Lancelot needed to protect the boy, needed to protect Nimue. It was all he could think as he unsheathed his twin blades, moving toward the Paladins as he did so. There were four of them, all with their swords drawn. 

“What are you doing?” Nimue hissed. 

He didn’t respond and instead focused all of his attention on the Paladins, who were heading toward them. They were no match for Lancelot, but he was wounded and his movements were slow. Even raising his swords required more effort than he cared to admit, though the salve Nimue had applied on his wounds had helped with the pain. 

When they were only a few yards apart, Lancelot said, “You don’t have to do this. You can walk away and forget you saw us.” 

“Us?” one of the Paladins asked, raising his sword a little higher. His companions looked around discreetly. 

Lancelot’s brow furrowed and he looked back to check on Squirrel and Nimue—

Only to find that they were nowhere to be seen. 

“We know what you’ve done, Monk.” The raspy drawl of another Paladin brought him back. “Abbott Wicklow wants your head.” 

_I am sure he does_. Lancelot bit back the remark. 

“How could you betray your own brothers?” another Paladin spoke up. 

A different Paladin said, “Animals don’t have the capacity for reason. Betrayal is in their blood.” 

Lancelot clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on his sword. This had gone on for too long.

Steeling himself, Lancelot charged forward and felled the first two Paladins by swiping his dual swords in two intersecting arcs in front of him. The Paladins crumpled to the forest floor, and the last two charged him, each taking moving to either side of him. The one to his left raised his sword above his head and slashed down, while the one to his right made a swipe at Lancelot's ankles. Lancelot parried the Paladin to his left with little more than a thought and nicked the arm of the Paladin to his right with his blade. The man grunted in pain and redoubled his efforts, while his companion ran at Lancelot with a war cry.

But he didn’t make it far—vines erupted from the ground beneath him and twisted around his writhing body. The last Paladin froze in a moment of pure panic and fear, giving Lancelot an opening to stab him straight through the heart. It was a quick death and a mercy he felt obligated to give. They had been his brothers, once, and even if that meant nothing to them, it had meant something to Lancelot.

“You’re welcome.” 

Lancelot spun to face Nimue. “I thought you had gone.” 

She raised a skeptic brow. “We haven’t moved. We’ve been here the whole time.” 

He could only blink. “I’m not sure I understand. You disappeared.” 

“I might have a theory about that.” Nimue bit her lip in contemplation as she sorted through her words. “Your ability allows you to find those who don’t wish to be found; I suspect that it can also hide them, too.”

Lancelot’s brow creased. “But this has never happened before.” 

“Have you ever needed to use it?” At Lancelot’s silence, she continued. “When I searched for the Hidden within you, a large part of it was buried deep within your subconscious. Like you’ve repressed that part of who you are for your entire life.” 

“Oh.” He was not sure what to say. He had had to repress his identity for the majority of his life, so it was no surprise that if he had any other powers besides his tracking ability that they would be repressed, too.

“That’s bloody fantastic!” Squirrel shouted, hopping down from the saddle and rushing toward Lancelot. 

Lancelot couldn’t help the upward quirk of his lips.

Nimue opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted by a powerful gust of wind that knocked them all back. When they righted themselves, a woman cloaked in black drapery stood in the center of the clearing. 

“Morgana?” Nimue asked. 

“There isn’t much time.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to make up for the amount of time this took, i made this chappy a little longer this week :)
> 
> thank you all so much for your comments, they make me so happy and encourage me to continue working! lanci, as some of you hoped, has powers now--let me know what you think about them!


	5. Chapter 5

“There isn’t much time.”

Nimue’s mouth went dry. “I don’t understand, what’s happening?” 

“It’s Cumber. He’s sending an army to wipe the Fey out.” Morgana paused, then amended, “Well, _another_ army.” 

“‘ _Another army_ ’? They didn’t leave on the ships?” Nimue wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or dismayed, but she was definitely guilty. Had they stayed for her? She had told Arthur to leave, to not look back. She had made her choice for the good of her people—why couldn’t he have just let her go? 

But the tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered to her that the Fey had stayed for _her_. Because they believed in _her_. 

“No,” Morgana said, shaking her head. “I didn’t know it, either, but apparently Cumber sent soldiers to make certain the Fey never left the beach.”

Her stomach dropped. _How many casualties?_ she wanted to ask. _How many did we lose?_

But Nimue remained silent. She could not ask now or else she might break, and that was not an option. She had to be strong—if not for herself, then for the Fey. Taking a deep breath, she asked instead, “What do we do?” 

“I made sure that Arthur led the Fey to safety. By the time Cumber’s soldiers arrive at the beach, they should be long gone.”

“You saw Arthur?” Nimue’s heart stuttered. “How is he? Is he alright?” 

Morgana gave a rueful smile and glanced away. “He’s fine, Nimue.” 

Nimue couldn’t help the small sigh that escaped her. Arthur was _alive, alive, alive_. She would get to see him and this time, they would never have to be parted again. 

“In the meantime, we need to slow Cumber’s army down. If you and Merlin work together—wait.” Morgana paused and looked around the clearing, her gaze briefly stumbling on the Monk. “Where’s Merlin? And what is _he_ doing here?” she demanded, jerking her head toward the ex-Paladin. 

Ignoring Morgana’s last question, Nimue asked, “Is Merlin supposed to be here?” She found that she didn’t possess enough energy to pretend to defend the Monk’s reasons for tagging along. She still hadn’t made up her mind about him yet, still hadn’t decided if she could move past what he had done to her people.

To _their_ people, she reminded herself. Because he had not just harmed a race he didn’t understand out of fear or ignorance, no—the Monk had been a part of mass genocide against his own kind. 

It made her sick, it made her angry. She didn’t want to feel anything other than hatred toward him, but the previous night had complicated things. His confession had twisted her assumption of him and made Nimue question everything she knew. The Monk was single-handedly blurring her well-constructed lines between good and evil, and she didn’t know what to do. 

She never should have let the Monk travel with them. He and Squirrel were already closer than she could have imagined, given the circumstances; the boy had even let him call him by his given name. Squirrel was young, impressionable. What would happen if he and the Monk grew closer if the boy began to look up to the allegedly reformed murderer? 

Clenching her teeth, Nimue silently resolved to make sure that never happened, whatever it took.

“Merlin told me that he was going to meet you,” Morgana said, bringing Nimue back to the present. 

“Well, obviously something got in his way.” Nimue paused, thinking, and then, “Where did you two go after I . . .” she trailed off, unable to form the words. Her fall was still fresh in her mind, the feeling of Death’s talons gripping her lungs still paralyzing. 

Morgana pursed her lips. “We went back to his old tower in Uther’s palace. We didn’t have anywhere else to go.” 

“Do you think Uther found him?” Nimue didn’t want to believe it, but it was entirely possible. Even if Merlin had his magic back, he couldn’t defend himself or outright murder the king without risk of being hunted down for generations to come. 

“I don’t know what to think anymore, but there isn’t enough time to debate. We have to get to the Fey before Cumber’s army does.” 

“What makes you think that we can do anything against an entire army?” Nimue asked, doubtful. 

Morgana gave her a flat look. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.” 

Nimue’s brow furrowed. “I’m serious, Morgana. Getting rid of those soldiers in the forest was one thing—fighting off an entire army is another.”

It was true; Nimue had been able to fend off a handful of soldiers, but she knew she was not yet ready to take on an entire army, at least not alone. Maybe if Merlin were there it would be different, but he was nowhere to be found. 

“You will have me.”

Nimue startled. It was the first time the Monk had spoken since Morgana had arrived. Nimue almost wished she could say she had forgotten he was there, but it wouldn’t have been true—she felt his presence in the back of her mind, a steady heat burning in her subconscious. Ever since she had had that vision of him in the caverns, something had changed. 

No, changed wasn’t the right word, she decided. Something had been discovered, something that had always been there, buried in the shadows of her mind. Fate had led them there, and fate guided them now. 

It was only then that she realized what—or, more accurately, _who_ —she was connected with, and she stifled a wave of revulsion. 

There must have been some sort of fluke; maybe the presence in the back of her mind was her mother, guiding her to the right decision. After all, it felt good and kind and familiar, and the Monk was none of those things.

It _couldn't_ be the Monk. Fate wouldn’t be that cruel.

Morgana scoffed. “I still don’t understand what he is doing here.” The question was directed at Nimue but her eyes were on the Monk. “Didn’t he hunt you all down, hell-bent on murdering the Fey?”

The Monk looked away, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Yes,” he breathed, “I did.” 

“And you’re fine with that, Nimue? Welcoming him into your good graces after all that he has done?” Morgana shook her head before Nimue had the chance to respond. “Did the water of the lake damage your brain, is that what this is?” 

“Morgana,” Nimue said her name like an order. The young Daughter stopped her tangent and gazed at Nimue expectantly. “I am not saying that I’m alright with the . . . situation,” she glanced sidelong at the Monk, whose gaze was resolutely turned away, “but I am asking you to focus on what’s more important at the moment—the Fey.” Nimue closed her eyes in anticipation of what she was about to say. “And if Lancelot is offering his help, then I won’t turn him away.” 

For a moment, Nimue was sure Morgana wouldn’t respond, and then—

“He’s _Lancelot_ now?” She guffawed. “I didn’t realize we were humanizing murderers.” 

Nimue tried to be patient, she really did, but it wasn’t in her power. She was disgusted with the Monk and frustrated that Morgana was questioning Nimue’s decision to allow him to stay with them. Why couldn’t anything be easy for once? 

“I’m not asking you to understand, Morgana,” Nimue said, patience running thin, “so let’s focus and discuss what’s more important right now.” 

Morgana bit the inside of her cheek. She was silent for a few agonizing moments before she spoke. 

“They Fey could have left tracks—they were in a hurry.”

Nimue let out a small sigh of relief at Morgana’s compliance. “If Cumber’s army is already on its way, then we have to move fast to intercept them. They’ll likely have sent scouts ahead, and I can’t let them get back to the soldiers with wind of where the Fey went.” 

“I agree. Head there now—I’ll go find Merlin and have him come to you so he can transport the lot of you to the beach,” Morgana asserted. “Once you get there, make sure to cover any tracks the Fey could have left.” 

Nimue nodded. The decision had been made. “Born in the dawn.”

Morgana’s answering smile was grim. Idly, Nimue found she had trouble remembering the last time she had seen her friend smile. “To pass in the twilight.” 

The Fey expression was easier than saying goodbye. It meant that there was still a chance of life beyond death, that if something ever happened, Nimue and Morgana would one day reunite.

Nimue blinked and Morgana was gone. 

There were a few moments of palpable silence before Nimue turned back to Squirrel and the Monk, determination hardening her gaze. “We have to leave, immediately.” 

No objections were made—both Squirrel and the Monk seemed to understand the weight of the situation. 

The Monk didn’t spare her a glance as he lifted Squirrel onto the horse and started forward on foot. His limp was more prominent than it had been, though his face was emotionless, dead eyes staring straight ahead. He must have reinjured himself during the fight.

She made herself look away. One minute she hated him, and the next she was sympathizing with him?

But she couldn’t just let him hurt himself further. Whether she liked it or not, their paths were intertwined. As his queen, she had a duty to help him—she owed it to him to give him this. He had saved her and Squirrel, and that counted for something. 

Nimue sighed. She couldn’t believe she was actually going to do this. 

“Mo—Lancelot,” she called, tripping over his name. He turned back to her, hand snapping to one of his swords, ready to fight at a moment’s notice despite being heavily injured. “Use the horse. I need a good walk.” 

His expression hardened, most likely thinking that she was pitying him. His voice was rough when he muttered out an “I’m fine.” 

“No, you’re clearly not.” Nimue walked forward, catching up to him easily and stopping in front of him. “Get on the horse. That’s an order from your queen.” When he didn’t move right away, she tried again. “I thought you said you were loyal to me?” 

This seemed to get his attention. “Yes, my lady.”

Nimue blinked. “I’m not your lady.” 

The Monk gave her a quizzical look before his mask fell back into place once more. “What should I call you then?”

Nimue hesitated. “Not ‘my lady’.”

Maybe it was the light or the adrenaline from earlier warping her perception of reality, but Nimue could have sworn the Monk’s lips had quirked up in the beginnings of a smile. 

The Monk did as he was commanded and climbed atop his horse behind Squirrel, who had been noticeably silent throughout the entire exchange. When the boy caught her staring, he merely raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. 

Nimue didn’t know what that was meant to convey, and she didn’t ask, and instead started forward along the path once more. They could have stayed in their little camp until Merlin found them, but Nimue knew she wouldn’t have been able to sit still, not with Fey lives on the line. She had to move, had to do something.

But even as they walked, the silence of the woods was too all-consuming and she was bombarded by intruding thoughts. 

What if Cumber’s army discovered the Fey? Would Arthur be alright, was he struggling to lead the Fey? What about Pym and Kaze? Nimue hadn’t even thought to ask Morgana about them. 

She had to distract herself. 

“So,” she found herself saying, “how do you think you did it?” 

The Monk knew what she was referring to and didn’t ask for clarification. “I’m not sure.” 

Nimue frowned, though he couldn’t see it; she was still staring resolutely ahead. “You cloaked all of us with your magic; that must have taken a lot of concentration. Are you sure that you weren’t thinking of anything specific?” 

She looked over her shoulder in time to catch the shake of his head. His eyes were on the horizon, but when he felt her staring at him, he met her gaze. Nimue whipped her head back to face the front as if she had been burned. 

After the awkwardness had passed, she began again. “When I was first learning how to wield my magic, it responded to my emotions. Was it like that for you, do you think?” 

The Monk was silent for a moment before he spoke, deliberating. “All I knew was that I had to protect Percival. And you,” he said.

“And you said that you’ve never done this before? Not once, not even on accident?” 

The Monk shook his head once. “I never had a reason to protect anyone before,” he said simply. 

When she had asked him the first time, the Monk’s brows had pinched together in confusion. _But this has never happened before._

 _Have you ever needed to use it?_ she had asked, though she felt she already knew the answer. 

The Monk had stayed silent, proving her suspicions correct.

Now that she had a verbal admission, it wasn’t necessarily surprising, but it was odd to hear all the same. Nimue hadn’t found herself wondering what the Monk’s life had been like with the Paladins—considering he was a Fey hiding in plain sight—but now she began to imagine. And she hated what her mind came up with, hated the sympathy rising within her. Hated that she could quite possibly relate to his situation more than anyone else could.

Nimue still remembered what it felt like to be hated for what she could do.

 _No! Stop, please!_ Fear had crept up her throat. _Please stop! No, stop!_

Peri had not listened to her pleas. _That’s the mark of the dark gods._ Then, _Is that what you did, demon? Used your magic to make Wallo look at you?_ She sounded incredulous. _Do you think he’d ever be with you?_

 _Leave me alone!_ Nimue had cried, the fear within her spiraling out of control. Would they kill her, would they cut her open and leave her to rot? Would her mother ever find her body? 

She had been panting, her heart had raced out of control.

The next thing she heard had been Peri’s screams. 

_Let go of her, Nimue!_ Wallo had demanded, frightened eyes beseeching. _Nimue!_

It had not taken long before Wallo and his friend had cut Peri loose, but once they did, they had scampered away into the forest, fleeing for their lives. _Nimue_ had instilled that fear in them.

But instead of saying any of this, instead of telling him that she understood, all she could breathe out was a soft “oh.” 

Despite the fact that Nimue was only assuming his experience had been as bad as hers, she couldn’t help her hatred for him ebbing away. She didn’t trust him—didn’t even like him—but it eased her conscience knowing that for all the pain he had caused the Fey, he suffered just as much hiding who he was from his supposed brothers. 

“Uh, Nimue?” Squirrel asked, nervous. 

Nimue glanced back at the boy. “Yes?”

Squirrel didn’t respond. He merely pointed up at the blue, midday sky. 

Except the sky wasn’t blue. Instead, dark, ominous clouds began to gather overhead, blocking out their view of the sun. 

Thunder rumbled. 

Nimue’s stomach sank. This wasn’t good. 

* * *

To say that Merlin was having a rough day would be a monumental understatement. 

Just as he had been about to leave to find Nimue, royal guards led by Uther himself had crashed through Merlin’s door. 

Merlin had started up out of his seat where he had been preparing a rucksack, eyebrows shooting up. He had distinctly remembered locking the door in the event his rooms were ever searched, though he hadn’t expected anyone to break down his door in order to get in—Uther knew he didn’t have anything important in his chambers besides empty wine bottles.

Two soldiers stumbled through the door, and three others followed behind. When they saw Merlin, they stopped dead in their tracks, eyes wide.

Merlin reached for the Sword of Power and stood to face the soldiers, who still hadn’t moved from where they were frozen in the middle of the room. Had he been given more time, he would have hidden the sword, but it was too late now—the soldiers had seen it, and if Merlin didn’t dispose of them, they would report their findings back to Uther. And under no circumstance could Merlin ever let the sword fall into the boy-king’s hands. 

“Your majesty?” one of the soldiers asked, hand on his sword as if he were unsure whether to draw the blade or not.

Merlin’s brow creased as he looked beyond the soldiers and into the darkness of the stairwell. Footsteps scuffed against stone, followed by a crisp voice.

“What is it?” Uther snapped, coming into view before stopping abruptly, eyes disbelieving. He blinked, and then his face grew deathly pale. “Merlin?” his voice came out as a whisper.

Merlin should have been angry, should have been vengeful. Uther had had him killed, he had wanted him dead. But maybe Merlin should have been there for him more. Maybe he should’ve been more supportive of Uther’s ventures. 

He should’ve done so many things differently. 

Try as he might, Merlin couldn’t help but feel responsible for Uther and who he had become. The magician had known the boy-king for his entire life, had watched as he grew up, had celebrated each of his accomplishments as if they were his own. 

He hadn’t meant to get attached, but then again, Merlin had a habit of caring far too much.

“Did you expect I would be easy to kill?” Merlin asked, tone carefully reserved.

Uther flinched. Fear and a tinge of regret laced his tone as he demanded, “How?” 

“How about you tell me why you tried to kill me?” Merlin’s voice was even and controlled. 

The soldiers between them shifted uncomfortably, glancing between the two men. Their hands were on the hilts of their swords, poised to attack Merlin with one word from their king. 

A broken sound came out of Uther’s throat, and after a few moments of concern, Merlin realized that it was supposed to be a laugh. His eyes were crazed and red and he looked like he hadn’t had a wink of sleep in days.

Merlin’s eyes softened imperceptibly. “Uther, I—”

“What is that?” Uther demanded, eyes focused on the Sword of Power clenched in Merlin’s hand. “Is that what We think it is?” 

Merlin tried again. “Uther—"

But the boy-king wouldn’t let him finish. “I feel it calling to me.” His eyes darted up to meet Merlin’s own. “Give it to me.” 

“You know I can’t do that.” 

Uther’s eyes flashed. “Hand it over and be absolved of your crimes.” 

Merlin would have chuckled had he not been overcome with regret. He didn’t want to be Uther’s enemy, but if it was between Nimue and Uther, Merlin would choose Nimue every time. 

“I’m sorry, Uther.”

“You lie,” Uther spat the words like they were poison.

 _You are the king of lies_.

He needed to get out of this situation, and fast. Thinking quickly, Merlin began to concentrate on willing a storm to gather overhead. If he could conjure lighting again, as he had on the stone bridge, it would give him a good enough distraction as he made his escape. 

Merlin looked away. “I meant what I said, before,” he started. He could feel Uther’s eyes on him, on the sword in his hand. “I am proud of you, Uther.” He raised his eyes to the boy-king, only to find Uther shaking his head fiercely. 

And then—

“ _I trusted you_!” Uther shouted, hurt and rage pouring forth, the dam inside him splintering. “How could you do this to me?”

Merlin didn’t want to remind the already unstable king that _he_ had been the one to try and murder Merlin and not the other way around, so he remained silent.

“Have you anything to say for yourself, old man?” Uther’s hands were clenched at his sides and his cheeks were red with bottled fury.

Merlin felt the crackle of energy at his fingertips, ready for use. As much as he wanted to mend things with Uther, he couldn’t waste any more time. 

“All I have to say is goodbye,” Merlin said, willing his staff into his hand.

Uther’s eyes shot wide. “No—stop him!” he commanded his guards.

But they were too late; Merlin was already calling down a strike of lighting. By the time the soldiers reached him, Merlin was gone in a flash of blinding electricity, and the soldiers were left smoking in their armor. 

* * *

Lancelot had met many powerful Fey, but none as powerful as the one who stood before him—or the one that had appeared in front of them by way of a lightning bolt.

Instinctually, Lancelot dismounted Goliath, gritting his teeth against the ache in his bones. Merlin was a powerful sorcerer and Lancelot knew better than to underestimate him, despite rumors—evidently _false_ rumors—going around that he had lost his magic. Better to be on his toes if Merlin decided he didn’t favor Lancelot’s presence than stuck on the back of a horse. 

Squirrel shot him a look of worry, but Lancelot just shook his head. He was fine—he had to be. 

Nimue seemed to trust Merlin. That should have been all Lancelot needed to know, but something wasn’t right. He didn’t trust the sorcerer, didn’t trust how he and Nimue were so close despite numerous obstacles in the way of them ever meeting. Lancelot knew he was missing a vital piece of information, but he doubted he would get it from Nimue; he would have to figure it out on his own. 

“Merlin,” Nimue breathed, rushing up to the sorcerer in question and throwing her arms around him. 

As the skies cleared and returned to their normal color, Merlin wrapped the young queen in his arms and held her. The two sorcerers stood there, not speaking, simply holding the other as if their lives depended on it. Moments passed and Merlin finally pulled back just enough to inspect Nimue’s face, eyes darting between her own and assessing her for any damage. 

The act brought a memory to the forefront of Lancelot's mind, one where his father had done the same thing to him as Merlin was doing with Nimue. 

Lancelot had been just a boy when he had gone scouring the woods, desperate for the taste of adventure. But he had been young and foolish and had gotten lost. He had been forced to traverse the dangerous woods alone at night, but, after painstakingly retracing his steps, he had eventually found his way back home. His mother had cried and his father had taken his tiny face between his large hands and had inspected him for injury.

Those memories were usually buried deep in his subconscious, but Lancelot found that the more he let go of his life with the Paladins, the more connected he was with his past life—and his real family. 

Nimue gripped Merlin’s hands with her own. “I’m sorry that I worried you, but I’m alright.” At his uncertain look, she added, “I promise.” 

Merlin dropped his hands from her face and stepped back. “I swear to you I will get my revenge.”

“And I thank you for that, but right now, we have more important things to worry about.” 

Merlin’s brow furrowed as Nimue explained their plight. When she was finished, he leaned on his staff for support, head bowed slightly. 

“Morgana said that the Fey would be long gone, but I still think we should make sure they didn’t leave any tracks,” Nimue said. 

Merlin’s eyes crinkled at the edges as he attempted to smile. “A good plan.”

Nimue waited in silence as if expecting more of a reaction. 

“It’s just . . . I’m so proud of you, Nimue,” Merlin spoke, voice shaky. There was pain in his eyes. “I need you to know that.” 

Nimue’s answering smile was sheepish. “I couldn’t have done all of this without you.”

“Yes, you could have,” Merlin contradicted without hesitation, “and for the most part, you did. I just helped you open your mind to the Hidden.” 

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.” 

The corners of Merlin’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “And you give me far too much.” 

“Nimue,” Squirrel piped up, “we should go. The Fey could be in danger.” 

Merlin blinked, gaze going to Squirrel and Lancelot as if he had just noticed they were there. The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed in confusion at the sight of the former Monk but he didn’t comment, which Lancelot took as a good sign. He wouldn’t be murdered today—at least not by Merlin.

Nimue took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right—we have to move. Merlin, do you think you can transport all of us to the beach?”

“It would be an honor.” The sorcerer moved to stand in the middle of their small group. He eyed the Monk warily before he said, “You all need to have physical contact with me in order for this to work.” 

“Will you be able to transport Goliath, too?” Squirrel asked. 

Merlin’s brow creased. “Who?”

“Lancelot’s horse,” the boy said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Lancelot shot Squirrel a grateful look, and Squirrel smiled in return. 

A frown pulled at Merlin’s lips. “I can try, though it’s been . . . a while since I’ve done this.”

Satisfied, Squirrel reached down from his position atop Goliath and put his hand on Merlin’s forearm. Nimue was next, resting her hand on Merlin’s shoulder, and Lancelot followed her lead, burying his fear of losing his limb. 

“Ready?” Merlin asked, looking to Nimue for confirmation. 

Nimue glanced at Squirrel before meeting Lancelot’s eyes. The ex-Paladin gave her a subtle nod, to which she said, “Alright. We’re ready.”

Clouds gathered overhead and thunder rumbled, preceding a clap of thunder so electrifying it shook the ground beneath them. Fire shot straight through Lancelot’s veins, so much so that he thought he might burn up. He shut his eyes against the blinding light and opened them to find himself on a deserted beach.

The light died down; only sparks remained, zapping between the Fey as they separated. 

“Is everyone alright?” Merlin asked, glancing around at the small group. 

Squirrel’s eyes were wide and his hair was sticking up at odd angles, but a brilliant smile was stretched across his face. “That was insane!”

His lips quirked upward of their own accord as he helped the boy off of the horse. Squirrel had seen a lot for someone his age, but he still found ways to appreciate the little joys in life.

Lancelot was not a good person, but he wanted to be. If not for himself, then for Squirrel. He wanted to be someone the boy could look up to—someone like the Green Knight. He wanted to teach him how to properly hold a sword and how to appreciate the beauty around him.

Lancelot found his gaze straying to Nimue. She was discussing plans animatedly with Merlin, but Lancelot didn’t hear a word she said. He just . . . watched her, the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the way her nose scrunched up as she thought hard about something.

Yes, Lancelot wanted to teach Squirrel about the beautiful things in life, too. 

“Nimue?” a voice called behind them. 

Lancelot whipped around, swords already out of their sheaths as he positioned himself in front of Squirrel. 

But instead of one of Cumber’s soldiers, a man with dark skin and wide eyes faced them, sword in hand. A sword that was quickly abandoned to the sand as he ran straight toward Nimue. 

The Fey Queen met him halfway, a smile lighting up her face. Something inside Lancelot felt funny at the sight, but he couldn’t place what. 

“Arthur,” Nimue murmured against the man as they hugged each other close. “I wasn’t sure when I would see you again.”

The man—Arthur—pressed Nimue impossibly closer. Lancelot felt like he was looking into a private moment, one not meant for his eyes. He resisted the urge to turn away. 

“I thought I had lost you,” Arthur said. He stepped back from the embrace and looked Nimue over. His eyes narrowed in concern. “What happened? Your dress . . . it’s all torn.” 

Nimue pressed a hand to her chest, to her side. Lancelot hadn’t paid much mind to the cuts in her dress, but now that Arthur had pointed them out, he stilled. Those weren’t just tears in the seams, as he had previously thought. No, those cuts were from _arrows_. 

“I’ll explain everything later,” Nimue said. “I promise.” 

Arthur nodded. He looked behind Nimue to Merlin, who he gave a terse nod to, and then to Squirrel, where a small smile touched his mouth. And then his gaze met Lancelot’s own, and the former Monk knew everything was about to go very, very wrong. 

Arthur’s bright eyes and happy persona darkened immediately. His voice was low, dangerous as he spat, “What is _he_ doing here?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just love merlin sm, and his relationship with uther is so interesting! i can't wait to dig deeper into his psyche :) and call me soft, but lancelot and squirrel are literally my favorite thing to write. 
> 
> again, thank you all for your kudos and comments, they really helped motivate me. it brightens my day whenever i get a notification, so thank you sm!!
> 
> lastly, i'm sorry this is so late! i was absolutely swamped with school and had no time to write. hopefully, the longer chapter makes up for that. :')


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur was _here_. He had waited for _her_ , had risked his life so that she would be able to find the Fey again.

Being in his arms was a relief, a blessing. Surely she did not deserve this, surely she could not be so lucky.

Nimue couldn’t stop a brilliant smile from breaking out across her face—one that was promptly shattered when Arthur’s gaze locked on Lancelot. She froze, panic seizing her. She knew Arthur too well to believe that he wouldn’t jump into action before thinking his plan through. She recognized that look on his face, the anger there almost a palpable thing. 

“Arthur,” she tried, reaching out with a hand to seize his arm. “Arthur, wait—” 

But Arthur only shrugged out of her grip and bent down to retrieve the sword he had discarded to the sand in his hurry to embrace her. With the sword in his grasp, he stormed toward the Monk, eyes promising murder.

The Monk’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly as Arthur rushed toward him. He must have understood the gravity of the situation, for he quickly shoved Squirrel out of the way with one gruff, solid push. The boy stumbled over to Merlin’s side, eyes as wide as the moon and brimming with fear. 

“Arthur, stop this!” Squirrel shouted, his legs bent at the knees in preparation to run in between the two men if need be. “Lancelot’s on our side now!”

Arthur did not respond—didn’t even spare the boy a glance as he raised his sword and brought it down in a slashing arc toward the Monk. 

Just when Nimue thought the Monk wouldn’t be fast enough, when she was sure that Arthur was going to land a killing blow, the Monk unsheathed his sword and met Arthur’s blade with his own. The clash of metal on metal rang through the air. 

Whereas Arthur was wild and uncontrolled, the Monk was calm and focused. Arthur’s anger made him sloppy; his emotions got the better of him as he lunged and slashed his sword in great sweeping arcs that were easy to block. The Monk didn’t need to try hard to evade his opponent; all he needed to do was sidestep the blade, only raising his own when absolutely necessary.

The Monk’s ease only served to make Arthur angrier. The two men circled each other, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

“You deserve to die for everything you’ve done,” Arthur huffed. 

The Monk did not reply. The only sign that he had heard Arthur was the clenching of his jaw.

Arthur advanced again, muscles tensed. The Monk met him blow for blow, eyes focused, and blade precise. 

The metallic symphony echoed throughout the deserted beach, again and again. Seagulls cawed in the distance, likely put-off by the loud disturbance. Aside from the birds, there was no breeze, nor any other sign of life besides their small group. It was as if the world itself was holding its breath, watching and waiting for the outcome of the fight. 

Nimue did not know how much more of this she could take. She surged forward—only to be stopped by Merlin's outstretched arm. 

“Let them resolve this,” Merlin said. Nimue’s eyes narrowed, a retort on her tongue, but he continued. “If they do not get this aggression out now, then it will build inside them and explode. And we cannot have that if we’re to work together against Cumber.” 

Nimue didn’t like it, but it made sense. They would not get far if the two men couldn’t put aside their history in favor of the common goal. 

Begrudgingly, Nimue acquiesced to Merlin’s request and watched as her companions fought. 

Sand sprayed as Arthur lunged again, his sword coming dangerously close to the Monk’s side. The Monk grimaced in pain in his attempt to evade the blow. 

Nimue had nearly forgotten how extensive his injuries were, with everything that had happened. Her face burned anew at the memory of how she had applied the Fey remedy to his wounds. It had been dark then, too dark for him to see the blush that had no doubt stained her cheeks. She had only touched the exposed skin of his face and arms, had not dared to press the salve against the cuts along his chest which she knew were undoubtedly there despite not having seen him without his tunic or cloak. 

She remembered applying the salve to his forehead, remembered watching as his Adam’s apple had bobbed when he swallowed. 

_Would it have made a difference?_ he had asked, eyes searching hers. _Would you have taken pity on me if your Fey had been fighting a man and not a beast?_

 _No_ , she had replied, voice soft and low. _I suppose not_.

The question had made her reevaluate where she stood with the Monk. How could she, the Fey Queen, in good conscience forget what he had done to her—to their—people? How could she let that slide, even after she had heard his tale of woe?

The right answer was that she shouldn’t forget what he had done, that she should hate him and send him away without a second glance. 

But Nimue knew she couldn’t do that. Now that she knew more about the man under the Red Paladin facade, she couldn’t give up the hope that he was being truthful in his change of heart. And maybe in the deepest, darkest part of her mind, she felt connected to him in a way that she hadn’t with anyone else, not even with Arthur. 

The thought made guilt squeeze her insides. 

There was a grunt of pain and then a low thud of a body hitting the sand. 

Nimue pulled herself out of her traitorous thoughts and focused on the fight. Arthur was on the ground, his sword laying a few feet away from where it had been knocked from his hand. The Monk stood over Arthur, his chest rising up and down rapidly from the exertion. 

Arthur looked up at the ex-Paladin from his place on the ground, eyes narrowed. “Are you going to kill me then?” he spat. 

Nimue stilled, gaze shooting to the Monk. She hadn’t considered that this was a fight to the death, had only thought it was a way for Arthur to blow off some steam. 

She felt the Hidden rise up within her, ready to call upon its power within a moment’s notice. 

The Monk sheathed his sword, much to Arthur’s surprise if the way his brows rose was any indication. 

“I don’t do that anymore,” the Monk said and stretched out a hand to help Arthur up. 

Arthur stared at him, bewilderment and anger twisting his expression. At last, he pushed himself up off the ground without taking the proffered hand of his opponent and dusted himself off. When he responded, he didn’t bother to hide the venom in his tone. “That’s hard to believe.”

“Then believe me,” Nimue found herself saying. Both men turned to face her, equally surprised that she had spoken in defense of the Monk. “We don’t have much time before Cumber’s forces arrive here, and we can’t waste another moment. We have to cover any tracks left by the Fey so that we don’t get hunted down again.” 

The Monk nodded, but Arthur’s lips turned down. 

“ _He_ was the one who hunted us, Nimue,” Arthur hissed. “The Weeping Monk is a murderer and an abomination.” He made his way toward her until she had to look up to meet his eyes. His hands lightly gripped hers as he said, “We can’t trust him.” 

Nimue backed up a step, and Arthur’s brows furrowed in confusion. She was tired, so, so tired, and she knew that defending the Monk would get them nowhere. “We don’t have much time,” she repeated. “You just have to trust me and my judgment.” 

Arthur looked like he wanted to argue further, but gave a stiff nod nonetheless. It was all he could give, she knew. It was more than she had expected, and she could not fault him for his reluctance. She had threatened the Monk upon meeting him, after all. Asking Arthur for more than what he was capable of was unfair.

Suddenly, the air around them compressed and the temperature dropped. Nimue blinked, and Morgana was there, her mouth in a firm line.

“You have no idea how long it took me to find you,” she greeted as she threw back her veil. She gazed around at their small group, hesitating only on Arthur and the Monk. She must have realized the animosity between them, for her brows lifted slightly. Nimue shot her a look, and Morgana reined in her curiosity. 

“What took you so long?” Merlin asked, a hint of mirth in his tone. Nimue sent him a grateful look

Morgana glared at him, though there wasn’t any heat behind it. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I was looking for you in your tower, and then when you weren’t there and your chamber looked like a tornado blew through it, I assumed the worst,” she hissed. “My apologies.” 

Merlin’s expression darkened a fraction. “I didn’t know you would be returning for me.” 

Morgana responded with a huff. 

Deciding to ignore them, Nimue spoke. “Now that Morgana is here, we can split up in pairs and cover more ground.” She looked around the small group. Morgana begrudgingly trudged to Merlin’s side, while Squirrel ran up to the Monk. Nimue met Arthur’s gaze with a strained smile. “Meet back here in ten.”

No one objected, and each of the unofficial pairings made their way in separate directions to scout for any tracks left behind by the Fey. Nimue watched as Squirrel darted ahead of the Monk. His mouth was moving rapidly, but she was too far away to catch what he was saying. The Monk only shook his head at the boy’s antics and followed him dutifully.

“There were too many tracks in the cave for me to cover,” Arthur said, bringing her back to the present. 

Nimue blinked back at him. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

Arthur pursed his lips and nodded. As they made their way to the cave entrance, the sun high in the sky and beating down upon their backs, the silence became uncomfortable. The relief and happiness that Nimue had felt when she had first seen Arthur on the beach were now overshadowed by his fight with the Monk. 

She wanted to fix things, wanted to apologize. Apologize for what? Nimue was not sure exactly—there wasn’t much she could’ve done about the situation—but she still felt as if Arthur expected something from her. 

Nimue remembered how Arthur had told her of the time 

So she remained silent and the weight of what had happened settled in her gut, dragged her down. She didn’t look at Arthur until they made their way to the mouth of the cave. 

Arthur hadn’t been lying—there were indeed too many prints to cover by hand. 

“Stand back,” she ordered. 

Arthur complied, and Nimue reached within her for the Hidden. She found that the more she used the power inside of her, the easier it was to control. A burst of power sprung to life inside of her, and she directed it to the roots of plants long dead underneath the sand, coercing them into living once more. 

Thick vines exploded from the sand, effectively blocking the entrance to the cave and covering any prints that might have led out of it. Each vine was as thick as a tree trunk and twisted up to the sky as if it were trying to touch the sun. They were still growing and spreading as Nimue turned to Arthur, a small smile touching her lips at the power thrumming through her veins. 

“What do you think?” she asked, trying to stifle her pride. 

But instead of amazement on his face, Arthur’s eyes were tight and his mouth was stretched into a thin line. When he caught her stare, he quickly morphed his expression into one of amusement.

“Brilliant,” he said, but Nimue felt that it was a lie.

She frowned but didn’t comment. If something was bothering him, he would come to her when he was ready; she wouldn’t force the information out of him. Just like he hadn’t pressed her for more information regarding the Monk.

Nimue could tell that he was holding back, that his respect for her kept him from demanding why, exactly, the Monk was allowed to stay with them after all he had done. She didn’t know how long his silence would last, and she did not want to test it further. 

“Are you ready to head back?” she asked by way of distraction. She didn’t wait for his reply and made her way back toward the meeting point. After a few moments, she didn’t hear his footsteps behind her and stopped in her tracks. “Arthur?” 

But Arthur wasn’t looking at her; his gaze was trained on his feet as if the answer to his problems lay beneath the sand. 

“Arthur,” she repeated, “what’s wrong?” 

He was silent for so long that Nimue was sure he wouldn’t reply, but then—

“I still have scars _he_ gave me, Nimue.” Arthur’s voice shook and his gaze snapped up to hers. “After what he did to me . . . I don’t understand how you can forgive him.” 

Guilt rose in her once more. “Arthur . . .”

But he just shook his head. “I don’t know what happened while we were apart, but you’re not thinking clearly. He’s tricking you, Nimue! How can you not see that?”

Nimue’s brows furrowed in confusion. “I don’t—I don’t understand.” 

Arthur looked away, a muscle jumping in his jaw. When he turned back to her, he merely said, “Let’s just get back.” 

He pushed past her and trudged through the sand, leaving Nimue to watch him, frozen in place. 

* * *

Arthur knew he shouldn’t have left Nimue standing alone by the cave entrance, but he couldn’t help the sudden flare of anger he had felt. 

The Weeping Monk was dangerous—Arthur had seen his skill with a blade and those murderous, weeping eyes up close. The Monk had hunted down the Fey, hell-bent on exterminating them. Arthur wasn’t even Fey, but Nimue was. How could she forgive the Monk for everything he had done to her people? 

Something must have happened, he decided. The Nimue he knew and loved wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t stand for such injustice. The Monk must have been holding something over her, or deceiving her so that he could infiltrate the Fey camp and slaughter them once and for all.

The sun shone in his eyes, blinding him. 

He was the first one back at the meeting point, and he was antsy to leave. They were running out of time—who knew when Cumber’s army would arrive?

The minutes ticked by, and finally, the rest of the group returned. Merlin and Morgana arrived first, heads bent toward each other as they spoke quietly; Squirrel and the Monk followed a few steps behind. Well, the Monk followed—Squirrel raced ahead and made an abrupt stop in front of Arthur. 

“Did you find anything?” the boy asked, gaze intense.

An image of vines erupting from the sand flashed through Arthur’s mind, but he just shook his head. “We took care of it.” He glanced at Merlin and Morgana. “And you two?” 

“We covered anything we could. And even if we didn’t catch every print, I don’t think even Cumber’s best trackers could follow them,” Morgana said.

“Good, but if we’re not going to lead Cumber’s army here, we’ll need Merlin”—Arthur nodded at the wizard—“to get us out.” 

“Can you make the jump?” Nimue asked from beside him, making Arthur jump. He hadn’t noticed her sneaking up on him. 

Nimue didn’t spare him a glance as she addressed her father, and so Arthur refocused on the conversation. He would talk to Nimue later. He felt like she expected an apology from him, but he wasn’t sure if he was ready to give one quite yet—especially not in front of an audience. 

“Morgana can transport herself, so the only addition would be Arthur,” Merlin calculated. “It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“Alright.” Nimue nodded, once, and reached out a hand to grasp Merlin’s own. “Let’s get out of here.” 

Arthur moved to clasp the wizard’s arm, to which Squirrel and the Monk followed suit.

“WAIT!” Squirrel shouted, and Arthur flinched at the sound. If Cumber’s army didn’t already know where the group was, they would definitely know now. “Don’t forget Goliath.” 

“Who?” Arthur sputtered. 

The Monk squinted behind him. “My horse.”

“Just leave him, we don’t have time for this.” 

“We can’t just leave him here—what if Cumber finds him?” Squirrel pouted. 

Arthur repressed a sigh. “Then he will have gained another steed in his army. So what?”

“But—”

“Arthur, let Merlin try.” Nimue’s soft but firm gaze met his own. 

His jaw worked, but he relented. “Fine. Just hurry—” 

A horn sounded, and hundreds of horse hooves interrupted them. The Monk’s horse started to buck, and its owner rushed to subdue it with a hand to its reins. Arthur’s gaze whipped around to the crest of the hill, and his stomach dropped.

Hundreds of soldiers were running down the hill, their battle cries echoing across the beach. The first wave was already hitting the sand. They had moments before Cumber’s army would reach them. 

“Merlin, now!” Nimue commanded, and lightning crashed down around them. 

Arthur lost his grip on Merlin, and he was blown back by the force of the lightning. His head hit the sand and stars exploded across his vision. Sound was dulled around him, and his head was a lead weight, pulling him down, down, down, begging him to slip into unconsciousness. 

_No_. He couldn’t let go—he had to keep fighting. The sounds of Cumber’s army were getting louder by the second, and Arthur wouldn’t die laying down. He _would not_. 

Arthur’s nerves felt fried and something was definitely smoking, but he pushed himself up and faced the oncoming army nonetheless. Everyone, save the Monk’s horse, was gone. The sand where they had stood moments before was smoking and morphing into glass. He was alone. 

Shouting cleared his head and made him aware of the reality of his situation. There were hundreds of men charging toward him, and all of them reminded Arthur of the Red Spear’s raiders in their varying apparel which had no rhyme or rhythm.

The Red Spear. What would happen to her? She had risked her life and the lives of her people for the Fey, and now Arthur was abandoning her; she would have to lead both her raiders and the Fey on her own. 

Not that she couldn’t lead them, of course, but she should not have to. Not alone. 

And now Arthur had failed her.

There was a rumble of thunder, and then Arthur’s hair stood on-end. He knew what was coming, and dove to avoid the oncoming blast of lighting that was sure to incinerate him where he stood. When the bolt struck the earth, he barely missed; a hair's breadth later, and he would have been a smoking husk. 

Merlin stood where the bolt had hit, and Arthur vaguely registered that the army of soldiers were closing in on them. Without thinking, Arthur lunged for Merlin, who had his hand on the reins of the Monk’s horse. 

“Brace yourself,” Merlin shouted over the war cries behind them, and a moment later, the world disappeared around them, replaced by white-hot flames and crackling electricity. 

It was over before Arthur could blink, but his hair was left standing on end. His chest heaved, his eyes were blown wide. He searched around for Nimue, and only when he found her by his side did he breathe a sigh of relief.

She threw her arms around his neck, and his own encircled her waist. They remained that way for a few moments until Nimue pulled back. 

“I was so worried,” she said, eyes searching his own. For what, he did not know. “I thought—” 

“I’m here now,” Arthur reassured her, brushing his hands up and down her arms. 

It was then that he took a moment to gauge his surroundings. Merlin stood nearby, quietly talking with Morgana, and Squirrel was petting Goliath in order to calm the horse down. The Monk, however, was staring at Arthur and Nimue. When Arthur caught him looking, he quickly glanced away and focused on Squirrel. 

Arthur frowned. 

Merlin shuffled over to where Arthur and Nimue stood. “I regret that I did not bring us to the Fey, but I was unsure of their location. I forgot to ask before . . .” 

Before it was almost too late. Before Arthur could have been killed. 

Blinking past the vision of Cumber’s army bearing down upon him, Arthur cleared his throat. “It’s my fault. I’ll lead you there now, though it’s best if we go on foot. Lighting is a bit too conspicuous, and I don’t think the Fey will be happy if I compromise their location.” 

There were no objections, so Arthur started forward. Merlin had transported them farther along the beach, saving them an hour of travel, but there was still a lot of ground to cover. He led them down the beach in silence, until there was a large outcropping of rock that rose high into the sky. Cave entrances lined the rock, and Arthur made his way towards the one closest to the sea. 

“It should be in here.” He motioned the group forward, only stopping once they were completely inside in order to construct a make-shift torch. 

The horse’s panting and Arthur’s torch construction were the only sounds in the cavern, a silence which Nimue broke.

“How did you find this place?” Her voice was a soft breath that produced few echoes. 

Arthur glanced up at her for a moment before focusing on lighting the torch. “Red and her raiders used to scout the shores here for wrecks; she knows the territory fairly well.” 

One sizzle later, and a small flame blossomed and cast shadows across the space. Arthur glanced down—footprints. The Fey had made it. 

Nimue gave him a quizzical look. “Red?” 

Arthur stilled. He had forgotten how much Nimue had missed in their time apart. “Oh, you haven’t met her yet. Because of . . .” he said eloquently and gestured vaguely at Nimue, who raised a brow. “Let’s just go.” 

Everyone except Morgana began to move, only stopping when Arthur did. “Aren’t you coming?” he asked her, though he suspected he already knew the answer. Was she really going to leave so soon? 

“No. The voices, I—” Her eyes grew pained. Arthur didn’t ask about what she meant by ‘the voices’ and allowed her to continue. “I can’t stay, but I will return. I promise.” 

_There’s no time_ , Morgana had said to him mere hours before. _Later, I promise_. 

Yet again, Arthur was in the dark, and yet again, Morgana was leaving before she could give him a proper answer. 

Nimue seemed to have a better grasp on the situation than Arthur and rushed forward to embrace his sister. “Be safe.” 

“My safety is not what you should worry about,” was Morgana’s only reply. 

_She’s . . . changed._

Everything he knew had been flipped on its head since he had met Nimue. He used to think it was for the better—after all, Nimue was the love he had been waiting his entire life for. But now, watching as Morgana said her goodbyes and went off to who-knew-where yet again, Arthur was starting to question if this really was the path he was meant to take. And then he started to wonder if things would have stayed the same if he had never started talking to the pretty woman on the street, if maybe things would have been better.

As soon as the thought entered his mind, Arthur was immediately ashamed of it. How could he think like that? Nimue was, quite possibly, the greatest thing to ever happen to him. He couldn’t take her for granted.

Arthur hugged his sister goodbye, and she gave him one final, regretful look before disappearing into nothing.

Their small group made its way into the caverns quickly after that, Arthur taking the lead and the Monk taking the rear with Goliath at his side. Given that Arthur still didn’t trust the Monk—and knew that it would be a very long time before he would even entertain the thought—he was surprised that the ex-Paladin hadn’t stabbed them all in the back by now. He was being eerily quiet; Arthur was not sure of the last time he had heard the man speak. Arthur brushed the thought away, but still kept his guard up. Even if Nimue trusted him, Arthur wouldn’t let her mercy be her downfall. 

The woman in question walked on Arthur’s right. He couldn’t meet her eyes—guilt still clouded his heart from his previous musings. It was not fair to either of them to act as if he hadn’t questioned everything about their relationship, even if his feelings for her hadn’t changed. 

He could tell Nimue wanted to speak, but there were others listening. Now wasn’t the time. She seemed to understand this and fell back to the middle, where Squirrel and Merlin were walking together. 

She began to converse with Merlin about the limits of the Hidden, which Arthur found himself tuning out. It was not because the topic didn’t interest him—it was actually quite intriguing—but it made him uncomfortable to know that the two of them had great and inhumane power while Arthur was merely human.

Both Nimue and Merlin could accomplish dizzying feats without breaking a sweat, all because they had been given a gift no one else had access to. Arthur was jealous; he wanted to be the one that was worshipped, the knight in shining armor that saved the day. He loved Nimue, loved her more than he ever thought possible, but he was jealous of her, too.

And it was this realization more than anything that made his heart contract with guilt. 

“This way,” he said after they had walked for nearly a mile through the cave system. He led them through a small crevice, one barely large enough to fit Goliath. As the Monk struggled to maneuver his horse through the fissure, Arthur found that he understood how the horse had gotten its name. 

When the horse was finally through, their group continued on through a tunnel that was much more cramped than the one prior; they were forced to form a single file line in order to fit. It was a wonder both the Fey and the raiders had gotten through. 

Fortunately, the tunnel was short and Arthur could already see the sun shining through on the other side. He was growing impatient, especially after Nimue’s conversation with Merlin had died down and had been replaced with silence. 

Arthur burst out of the tunnel and into a bright, open area with a sigh of relief. The others soon followed, and he could hear Nimue take in a faint gasp. 

The area that Red had scouted out was beautiful. It was a large cliff that overlooked the beach below. The sun was in its descent, and its light reflected off of the ocean waves like in a painting. Shrubbery, combined with the elevation, concealed them from any prying eyes below—Cumber’s army would not find them here. 

The Fey had set up camp across the rock face, and as he moved closer to the edge of the cliff, he saw a few children running along the beach below. Panic seized him for one brief moment, but he quickly realized that this part of the beach was blocked off by large boulders; no one would be able to see them or be able to get through unless they swam. 

He spotted the Red Spear first. She was talking with Kaze, their heads close together. Her expression was grave and her eyes were two focused slits. Her lips pursed as Kaze spoke, and she briefly pinched the bridge of her nose. 

Arthur didn’t want to interrupt whatever conversation she was having—it didn’t look like a good time—but he needed to inform her of everything that had happened so that they could move forward. Now that Nimue was back, they could focus all of their efforts on their war strategy. 

“Red?” Arthur called, walking up to the two warriors. Their eyes shot to his, gazes poised to kill, and he paused.

Kaze and the Red Spear shared a glance before Kaze nodded and went off. As she passed him, the warrior offered a slight bow of her head toward Arthur, which he returned with a small smile. 

“You’re not dead.” 

Arthur met the Red Spear’s gaze. Her arms were crossed, and Arthur wasn’t sure if she was disappointed in his being alive or not. 

He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he just grinned and said, “No. I suppose not.” 

“I see you acquired more travelers.” She nodded her head toward where the rest of his tiny band of travelers mingled with the other Fey. The Weeping Monk was the only one not among them; he stood on the outskirts of the small clearing, his gaze on Squirrel as the boy talked to a few of the Fey warriors. 

Arthur glowered and turned back to the Red Spear. “Yes,” he said, terse. “About that.” 

She quirked a brow and Arthur explained the situation, adding heavy emphasis on the fact that the Monk was _dangerous_ and _should not be trusted_. When he was finished, he asked, “Well?”

“‘Well’ what?” 

Arthur was incredulous. “ _Well_ , what should we do about the Weeping Monk?”

Instead of being helpful and suggesting that they either lock the Monk up in chains or kill him, the Red Spear just sighed. “We are not going to do anything.” 

Arthur scoffed. “You can’t be serious.” 

“Deadly.” At his expression, she continued. “I hate the Paladins just as much as you, but . . .” Another sigh, this one more from exhaustion than anything. “Look, Arthur, at one point you’re going to learn that war is war, and you will need all the help you can get. And if a skilled fighter is offering to join our cause, then we should let him.” 

Arthur didn’t understand what he was hearing. Surely, he wasn’t the only one with common sense?

“You’re insane,” he ground out through clenched teeth. 

The Red Spear’s eyes narrowed. “What did you just say?” 

“You. Are. Insane,” he said, enunciating every word. “He hunted the Fey and tried to kill every last one of them. Do you not see the warning signs?” 

“I do not think you wish to test me today, Arthur.” 

“And why is that, Red?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, get over yourself,” she hissed. “Just because your girlfriend brings in one of your former enemies doesn’t give you any right to act like a child. This is war—enemies become friends, and friends become enemies.” Her expression darkened and she looked away as if recalling something. 

Understanding dawned on him. “Someone betrayed you.” 

Her nose ring glinted in the dying light of the sun as she turned away from him. “Yes.” 

A simple answer, yet one that came with a barrage of questions, none of which he could ask. At least, not at the moment.

He knew that pushing her wouldn’t get him anywhere, but he had to try. “If someone close to you betrayed you, how can you trust that the Monk will not?”

Arthur was not expecting an answer, so when she spoke, he started.

“I am not the same person I was.” She met his gaze. Sadness and pain and guilt swirled in her eyes. “And this time, if I get hurt, I will not hesitate; I’ll strike back, twice as hard.” 

It was a long moment before he spoke again. “Fine,” he said. She raised a brow. “The Monk can stay. For now.”

“Oh?”

“But,” he rushed to add, “if he does anything—anything at all—to suggest that he isn’t completely loyal to us, then we get rid of him.”

The Red Spear nodded once. “A wise decision. We’ll need him if his abilities are as accurate as you say they are.” 

“What for?” 

She grimaced. “Kaze alerted me to the disappearance of one of my men.” 

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “Was he captured?”

She shook her head, her gaze far away and brows drawn close together in concentration. “Perhaps.”

The Red Spear did not say more on the matter, and Arthur chose not to press. 

After a moment, he said, “We should probably gather the Council”—at the title, Red snorted— “and Nimue can fill us in on everything we missed. And then we can come up with a strategy to defeat Cumber.”

The Red Spear nodded, once, and stalked off to search for the members of their hastily thrown together war council. 

After scanning the rocky clearing, Arthur’s gaze snagged on Nimue and he made his way toward her. She was talking with Pym, a bright smile on her face, and he was instantly enraptured. 

And then he remembered the guilt he had felt, how he had taken her for granted. He vowed to make it up to her, even if she didn’t know what he had let himself think. He would not give her any reason to doubt his love. 

Because Arthur did love her. He loved her joy, her grace. The way she stood tall and elegant and demanded respect. At times, Arthur found himself wishing that she would allow him to protect her more. He wanted to be the one in shining armor, brandishing the Sword of Power and taking the glory that he was owed. But he was discovering more and more that it simply wasn’t in Nimue’s nature to step back from the limelight. 

Not that it was a bad thing, of course; it was simply something he would have to get used to. 

Nimue, feeling his gaze on her, turned her attention towards him. Her dazzling smile morphed into a softer expression, and she gestured over at him. He obliged, and slowly made his way toward her. 

He met Pym’s eyes, and his message must have been conveyed because the girl quickly excused herself with a knowing look. 

It was just the two of them now. 

“Red is getting the Council ready. We’ll swap stories and plan what to do next.” 

Nimue nodded. “What should I say?” 

“I was hoping you could tell us . . . well, everything that happened since the moment we parted ways, up until now.” Arthur frowned. “I’m still wondering what happened to you. And how a mass-murderer ended up joining your merry little band.” 

“Oh.” Nimue toyed with a loose thread on one of her sleeves and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Yes. That sounds good.” 

He frowned down at her. “Is something the matter? Are you alright?” 

“No, I just . . .” Her gaze focused on something over his shoulder. “How am I supposed to tell everyone about _him_?” 

Arthur turned and realized what she had been looking at. Or rather _who_. 

The Monk was watching Squirrel as the boy gesticulated wildly and moved his mouth at such a rapid speed, that Arthur would be surprised if anyone could understand what he was saying. But instead of looking confused and asking him to slow down, the Monk merely nodded along thoughtfully, adding in a comment or two from time to time. 

Arthur shook his head as if that would clear his mind of the interaction. It was difficult to think of the Monk as anything other than a cold-blooded killer. The way that he was acting around Squirrel . . . Arthur didn’t want to believe that the Monk was capable of caring about anyone; he didn’t want to humanize him. Maybe that made him heartless, but he chose to believe that he was just being cautious. 

Just because he had agreed to let the Monk stay did not mean that he would let down his guard for a second; it was clear that Nimue already had. Arthur wouldn’t let her mercy blind her from the Monk’s past—from his nature. 

“Arthur?” Nimue was looking at him expectantly, and he realized she was waiting for his reply. 

He cleared his throat. “I am not going to pretend to believe that the Monk has had a change of heart, but I’ve decided to let him stay.” 

“I didn’t realize you were the King of the Fey.” Her expression hardened.

“That’s not what I meant,” he backtracked. “I was talking with Red and we both decided that it would be fine if he stayed.” 

Nimue looked away. “I thought you were going to trust me and my judgment. I didn’t realize that meant you were to discuss with someone else the decision _I made_.” Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but she continued before he could. “If you didn’t trust me, why wouldn’t you say so?”

“I do trust you.” His words were soft. 

She shook her head. “Clearly that’s not the case, or you wouldn’t have thought of undermining my decision.” 

“Nimue—”

“Let’s just get to the meeting.” 

Arthur nodded numbly and pointed her to the Red Spear. “Follow her; she will know where to go.” 

Nimue did not respond—she didn’t even look back at him as she followed his instructions and made her way toward Red. 

Clenching his teeth to keep from running after her and apologizing, Arthur went over to where the Monk was leaning against the stone of the tunnel entrance. As he approached, the Monk’s gaze slid to his and Arthur straightened his spine. He would not be cowed. 

“Come with me.” Arthur said no more than that and waited as the Monk pushed himself off the wall. Squirrel had stopped talking and was glancing between the two men with apprehension. 

“Finally going to kill me?” the Monk asked. There was an uncertainty to his tone that thwarted the intended effect of his confident posture.

Arthur frowned and said, albeit regretfully, “Not today.” The Monk seemed to relax, and Arthur hurried to continue; he couldn’t have the Monk thinking that he was off the hook. “Just to be clear: I still hate you, and one day hope to see you dead.” 

The Monk lifted a brow. “The feeling is mutual.” 

Arthur tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. This was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: ahh i am so sorry for the wait!! i had so much going on and i had no time to write :/  
> this chapter was huge so i had to split it into two, so chapter 7 should be up soon!
> 
> i know a few of you don’t like arthur (and yeah i feel like he has an entitlement issue and a hero complex) but i had to give him a large part of this chapter bc plot. next chapter there will be a lot more nimulot interaction, as well as lanci and squirrel (bc let’s be honest, arthur sidelined them A LOT and they deserve to be in the spotlight). 
> 
> thank you for your wonderful comments! they helped motivate me to sit down and write amidst the craziness of my life :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw // panic attack

Arthur hadn’t said a word to him since he had ordered Lancelot to follow him, and the reformed Paladin was fine with that. But he was still curious as to why they were going back through the tunnels if he wasn’t to be killed for his crimes. 

After Arthur had conversed with one of the raiders in hushed tones—likely to ask for directions to wherever they were headed—he had wordlessly led Lancelot back into the tunnel system. So they remained in silence; neither was inclined to rehash the past, Lancelot least of all. Something told him that reminding Arthur that he had been close to killing him multiple times didn’t seem like the best survival tactic. 

The only thing Arthur had said to him since his threat against Lancelot’s life was about seeing some sort of Council. 

Lancelot kept his eyes on the path in front of him, careful not to stumble over fallen rocks or stalagmites. The dark of the tunnel was only combated with the flickering of a single torch in Arthur’s grasp; the dancing flames barely illuminated their surroundings. But Lancelot wasn’t going to comment—if anything, Arthur would most likely dispose of the torch entirely just out of spite.

Lancelot had never had friends—had never been allowed to be close to another person in such a way. Arthur, Lancelot knew, was loathe to even be in the same presence as him, and it was times like that when the reformed Monk missed his Goliath; the only companion who did not want to kill him. 

He had been sad to part with his steed, but Merlin had insisted that it was necessary. The horse had only made it partly inside the cave before it was made clear that he would not be able to complete the journey; the tunnel walls were too narrow. When Lancelot suggested that Merlin simply transport Goliath to the new Fey camp using his lighting, the old magician had frowned.

“It is too dangerous—we might be seen, and if we give up our location now, all of this will have been for naught.” 

Merlin had come up with a different solution: letting Goliath go out into the wild on his own. Though every part of Lancelot wanted to object, he knew that the magician was right. It was time. 

Lancelot had nodded and begun to lead Goliath back out of the cave system when Merlin bade him pause. The ex-Paladin assented, and Merlin must have seen something in his eyes for he had said, “There is another option.” 

Merlin bent down and picked up a stray stone no bigger than his pinky finger. He brought the stone to his lips, where he whispered a language Lancelot did not know, and after a few moments, the stone began to shake and cut itself into the shape of a whistle. Merlin’s magic did not stop there, and a leather band slipped through the top part of the whistle to make a necklace. 

“When the time comes, use this and Goliath will find you, no matter the distance.” 

Now, back in the same tunnel system, Lancelot fingered the whistle around his neck. If Arthur killed him in these tunnels, would Goliath ever know? Would the horse even care? 

They continued on for another few minutes before they stopped at a fork in the path. Arthur frowned as if he were attempting to recollect directions. After a moment, he continued to the right—different from the path they had originally taken; it wasn’t as steep and veered to the right instead of continuing as a straight line. 

It was not long after when they arrived at the mouth of a large cave, curved like a dome. There was a shallow lake filled with crystal clear water in the middle, right below a natural oculus in the cave ceiling. The oculus allowed for a brilliant shaft of sunlight to illuminate the area. To the right of the lake, there was a flat, knee-high stone where the Council was gathered around. 

Arthur stepped into the cave, and the Council members who were already present glanced up upon his entrance. He dipped his head toward the assembly, before turning his head to glance over his shoulder at Lancelot. “Come with me.” 

Lancelot remained unmoving, hidden in the shadows of the tunnel. He was not great with people, but he was certain that if anyone saw him, they would either run in the opposite direction or shoot him on the spot. 

Arthur, upon registering that Lancelot was not, in fact, behind him, made his way back to his charge. He glared, as if daring Lancelot to oppose him. “What’s the problem?” 

Lancelot hesitated. “Are you sure about this?” 

Arthur fixed him with a hard look. “We are not going to hide you—this isn’t the Church. And unlike the Church, we don’t bury our sins beneath gilded lies.” His tone turned icy. “Follow me and face what you’ve done. Or are you too much of a coward to own up to your own crimes?” 

Lancelot looked away, unable to hold the man’s fierce glare. He was right about the Church, after all. Few knew of Lancelot’s origins, though some of the less important Paladins speculated. Carden had attempted to separate him from the group, especially when he was young. When he was a child, he was never allowed to associate with human children, much less be seen by them. 

_Father, why can’t I play with the others?_ Lancelot had asked as he watched the Paladin children frolic around the courtyard. They used sticks in lieu of blades in their mock-sword fight, and laughter permeated the air, filling Lancelot up with longing. 

_Beasts don’t play with human children. You have a purpose to serve, and it is not with them,_ Carden had told him, a hand weighing on Lancelot’s shoulder. _It is selfish to ask for more than that._

Though Carden had not said it directly, they both knew what he had meant: _It is selfish to think you are more than that—more than a beast._ Because in Carden’s mind, that was all Lancelot was ever going to be; not a child, not a son, but a beast who did not even have the right to make friends. 

Arthur did not wait for a reply before he turned and made his way fully into the cave. Lancelot dutifully followed in silence, pretending that with every step he took, he was further from his memories. That if he walked far enough and fast enough, they would not be able to follow him. 

But memories of the past were not the only things Lancelot needed to worry about. 

As the two men moved toward the Council, heads turned their way—and recognition slowly flickered to life inside of the council members’ eyes.

Arthur stiffened, no doubt noticing the Council’s focus solely on Lancelot. He stopped at the head of the rock, and Lancelot remained a few feet behind him. Raiders and Fey alike were reaching for their weapons, cold fury contorting their features. There were only ten members present, but Lancelot knew that with his injuries, he would be no match. Arthur would, no doubt, join the Council in taking revenge—not that Lancelot would blame him. 

Which was why Lancelot was shocked at Arthur’s next words.

“Stand down.” The man had one hand raised to stop the Council and the other on the hilt of his sword. “I can explain.” 

“Then start talking,” a woman with dark skin hissed through sharp teeth.

Arthur adjusted his stance so that he could keep an eye on Lancelot behind him. “I don’t like this, either, but we can use his tracking ability to our advantage.” 

“The same ability that got our brethren murdered?” shouted a Fey man at the far end of the makeshift stone table. “Unacceptable!” 

Cries of anger followed from most of the others, and Lancelot knew instinctively that Arthur would have to choose his next words with great care. 

Arthur swallowed, gaze darting around at the Council members. “He claims that he has had a change of heart, and Nimue believes him.” He looked as if he didn’t quite believe the words himself, but he pushed on, talking over the shouting Council. “Need I remind you all that Nimue is your queen—that she has saved your lives countless times. Her word demands respect.” 

“How do you know he can be trusted?” the dark-skinned Fey woman demanded, dagger gripped in her hand so tightly that her knuckles were pale. 

“Because he saved my life,” a feminine voice spoke from behind them. 

Lancelot and the rest of the assembly whipped around to find Nimue at the entrance to the cave. Her expression was fierce, jaw set, and eyes hard, leaving no room for argument as she made her way toward the Council.

A woman with braided hair followed loosely behind her and took her place by Arthur’s side, while Nimue went to stand by Lancelot. 

Nimue continued, her voice echoing in the lofty cave. “He rescued Squirrel from the Paladins and saved us both from death by their hands. That counts for something.” 

She did not spare Lancelot a glance, even though his gaze had never left her face. He had never thought that this could happen—her, defending him. It had never seemed like a real possibility, not after everything, but he found that he was infinitely grateful for it.

One of the raiders spoke up, still gripping the hilt of his sword. “So we’re just supposed to take your word for it? Trust that he won’t betray us?” 

“Yes.” Nimue’s voice was cold and commanding—the tone she had used when she had first met Lancelot. “Not three days ago, I sacrificed myself for all of you,” she gazed around, meeting the eyes of the Fey in the group, “and yet you still do not trust me.” 

It was not a question. The Fey Council members had the decency to look uncomfortable. 

Nimue soldiered on. “You may not trust him, and after everything he has done, I completely understand. But I am your queen, and for me to lead you all, I need to have your faith in my judgment.” 

Silence followed Nimue’s words, chasing after them and leaving the cave hollow. Her gaze met each of the members’ own before landing on Arthur. The two stared at each other, but Nimue eventually looked away first, shoulders stiff with tension. Odd—they had seemed close when they first reunited, had something happened? But, then again, Lancelot was not great with people. It was most likely nothing, and it was none of his concern, anyway.

The woman who stood by Arthur was the first to break the silence. “Aye, you heard the lady. If we cannot trust her, then who _can_ we trust?” Murmurs of agreement flitted amongst the Council. “Besides, we are outnumbered; we will not beat Cumber’s army and the Paladins by sheer force. We will need to come up with another way to defeat them.” 

“That’s where the Monk comes in,” Arthur said. 

“We would be fools not to use his ability in any way we can,” finished the woman, her gaze determined. A few of the Council members nodded their assent. “If we are in agreement, we should discuss a new plan now that we have both our queen and the Monk.” 

No objections were made, and Nimue seemed to relax. The hard part was over—Lancelot would survive another day. 

“How did you escape, my queen?” The dark-skinned woman again. This time, her gaze was not filled with murder, but with concern for her friend. 

“Uther handed me over to the Carden and his Red Paladins when I wouldn’t tell him the location of the Sword.” She paused, hand going to the hilt of the Sword of Power that rested in her sheath. “I promised it to him in exchange for Squirrel and Gawain, but—”

She cut herself off, and Lancelot watched as she blinked past the haunted look in her eyes. 

“Gawain?” another Councilman prompted.

Nimue just shook her head. “He did not make it.” Silence reigned for a few moments before she continued. “Not long after, Carden attempted to kill me.” 

Lancelot shifted on his feet. He had known that Carden had wanted Nimue dead—he had hunted her himself so that the Paladins might capture and kill her—but he had never considered that possibility that Carden was close to succeeding.

He felt Nimue’s eyes on him, but when he turned to meet her gaze, she glanced away. “Morgana intervened just as Carden was about to kill me,” she started. “And it gave me the opportunity I needed to get rid of Carden once and for all.” 

Time stopped. Everything was instantly too loud and too quiet at the same time. Lancelot could hear the blood pounding in his ears, the insistent rhythm making it difficult to hear much else. 

Through the fog of his thoughts, he heard someone clarify, “So Carden is really, truly dead?” 

The woman beside Arthur spoke again. “This changes things.” 

Nimue replied, and the other Council members joined in, but Lancelot could not hear them. It was as if he was underwater; sounds were muted and dull. He vaguely registered Nimue giving him a concerned glance, but he could not stomach the thought of looking at her. Not because he was angry with her—he could not imagine she would ever do something to warrant his ire, and killing Carden was not one of those things—but because he was sure that if he faced her, she would know how he felt. And that was not an option, not when she had just defended his loyalty to their cause before the entire assembly. 

He could not fathom Carden not existing, it did not seem possible. Carden had been an influential—albeit malicious—presence in his life for years. It was difficult for him to remember a time in which Carden was not in his life. 

Carden had been an awful man, hellbent on changing the fundamental parts of Lancelot and molding him into a weapon. Lancelot had rarely received a kind word from Carden, or a touch that was not cruel. Carden had taken Lancelot from his home, from his people, and forced him to hunt them. For all of these reasons, it should have been easy for Lancelot to hate the man, but he could not. And he hated himself for it.

Despite the enormity of the cave, it was suddenly too small. The walls were closing in around him, the stalactites were sharp daggers ready to pierce his heart. He needed to escape, he needed _air_ —

There—a narrow opening in the cave that led outside. Lancelot did not spare another thought to the assembly, didn’t give them half a mind even as they shouted at him to return. If they shot him, so be it. But he could not remain there, with those people, or he might suffocate.

He rushed through the opening and found himself on a beach, the sun beginning its descent and making the water appear like liquid gold. There was a group of both Fey and raiders setting up camp along the far side of the beach to his right, and to his left there was a large wall of stone and heavy boulders.

Lancelot made his way to the shore, where the land met the sea, and gazed out over the water. He contemplated praying, but figured it would be no use—would God even answer his prayers if he did not believe in Him? 

Besides, why would Lancelot pray for Carden in the first place? The Paladin deserved everything that came to him. He deserved to rot in hell for the things he had done, the things he had made Lancelot do. 

So why did Lancelot still feel like a piece of him had been broken? 

* * *

The meeting commenced quickly after the Monk left. 

Arthur made to follow the ex-Paladin, but Nimue stopped him with a hand to his chest. At his raised brow, she said, “Let me go to him.” 

Likely remembering their recent fight, Arthur relented without objection and stepped out of her way. As she followed the Monk’s path through the opening, she could hear Arthur try to get the Council under control. She felt a little bad that she had left him to deal with it alone, but as she looked back, she saw Red assist Arthur in subduing the argument between the members. It assuaged her guilt, seeing that he was not completely alone, as she made her way to the Monk. 

Nimue had seen the way the Monk’s eyes had tightened, had seen his shoulders tense when he had found out about Father Carden. She didn’t understand why he cared so much, especially not after she had heard how cruel the man had been toward him, but grief was funny that way; it didn’t make sense. And she wouldn’t begrudge him for caring, not when that made him less of a monster and more of a man. 

Perhaps she should have felt resentment towards him; his people had killed her mother, after all. Even so, Nimue couldn’t shake the need to go to him. No one should have to mourn alone. 

She found him on the beach, overlooking the ocean, staring into the horizon where the sky meets the sea. His gaze was hard and unrelenting, and he didn’t turn even as she stopped by his side. The wind howled, buffeting her and making her hair fly in every direction. It was doing much the same to his cloak; the fabric snapped in the wind, the sound echoing around them. 

Nimue pushed past her discomfort and, after a few moments, asked, “Are you alright?”

His gaze remained on the horizon, voice tight as he said, “I’m fine.”

She might have left it at that had things been different. But she wasn’t the same woman who drew her sword on him when they first met, and he was not the same man. 

“No, you’re not.” He still wouldn’t look at her. She tried again. “I know that Carden was . . .” she struggled to find the will to push past the bile in her throat at the words, “. . . important to you.” 

“You don’t know anything about me.”

Nimue frowned. That was true, but he couldn’t fault her for being cautious. Though she wasn’t as affected by his past deeds as she had been at first, that didn’t mean that she had forgotten them. She had a right to be distant, even if things had changed slightly between them. 

“No, but I’ve also lost people close to me.”

There was a long stretch of silence. Nimue, deciding that he wouldn't respond, made to head back to camp, when his hand snapped out and grabbed her wrist. She jolted, and her startled gaze met his. 

Without looking at her, he said quietly, “Stay.” 

_You’re not thinking clearly_. 

No, perhaps she wasn’t. 

She moved closer to the Monk. 

Nimue didn’t say anything; she barely even drew breath. But she stood beside him nonetheless, and stared out at the waves, waiting. Waiting for something, for some sign that he would open up to her. 

_Please_ , she thought. _Give me a reason. Something, to know that I made the right choice in letting you stay. To know that Arthur was wrong about you_. 

But he remained silent, and after a while, she began to lose hope. 

His voice was a soft breath on the wind. “Carden was the only person who cared about me.” She looked up at him, waiting patiently for him to continue. “He didn’t really love me, and he was often cruel, but I . . . I liked to believe that he cared about me, at least enough.” 

Nimue didn’t respond, but she stayed by his side. She couldn’t offer more than that—could not offer an apology or condolences because Carden was an awful man who had made it his life’s mission to rid the earth of her kind—but she could give the Monk this. And from his expression, it looked like it was enough.

Nimue and the Monk watched silently as the moon replaced the sun in the sky. Neither spoke, both afraid to break the peacefulness of the moment. It was a truce, like the previous night when she had attempted to heal his wounds.

An idea came to her. 

“Give me your hands.”

The Monk did not hesitate as he complied, though he shot her an odd look. His hands dwarfed hers, and were covered in scratches and dried blood. Nimue wasn’t sure if this would work, but if she could soothe at least some of his pain, then she would try. 

Arthur would call her insane for even thinking of trying to heal the Monk; after all, he had done terrible things. But so had Nimue. Who was she to deem him worthy of redemption or not? Who was she to decide his fate, if he was working to change? 

As soon as their hands touched, the Hidden rose up within her, the force of their whispers knocking the air from her lungs. She hadn’t touched the Monk before, not really—moss had been a barrier between their skin when she had attempted to heal him traditionally. Now, the Hidden were overwhelming in their ferocity. They clamored for her attention, crying out to her. 

Nimue looked up and realized that the Monk was having a similar reaction to her touch.

Images flooded her mind—a young child with scars of the Ash People ran through the woods with a bright smile stretching his face; the child’s mother, caressing his facial scars; his village burning, Father Carden at the center of it all.

Nimue stumbled back, suddenly out of breath. The Hidden quieted immediately when she released the Monk’s hands, giving her space to take in everything they had just shown her. 

Despite her head spinning, Nimue knew instinctively that those had been the memories of the Monk. No, not the Monk—Lancelot. Those visions were from a time before Lancelot had ever donned the persona of The Weeping Monk, before he had ever joined the Paladins. 

Why had the Hidden shown her that? 

“Did you see it, too?” The Monk’s voice brought Nimue out of her reverie. 

She swallowed. Nodded, once. “What did you see?”

He was silent for a moment, depthless eyes boring into hers. “You. Just you.” 

It was increasingly difficult to breathe. This had never happened with anyone else before—the Hidden had never shown her Pym, or Squirrel, or Arthur’s past. The Hidden had not shown her visions of Merlin or her mother when she had touched them, either. The Monk was the only exception. 

Nimue did not know what it meant, but she was too overwhelmed to find out. She needed . . . well, she wasn’t quite sure. But she was determined to heal him. 

Nimue closed her eyes and tried to rein in the Hidden, as she had done on a similar beach when she had been on the brink of death. She could not help but feel everything seemed to always lead back to the water. This time, however, the Hidden did not need to be told twice, and it complied with her wishes as soon as she asked. 

She opened her eyes and reached for his hands once more. No visions came this time, and, emboldened, Nimue set to work. They both watched his scarred hands heal, but, after a moment, she could feel his eyes searching her face. She only met his gaze once the wounds on his hands and forearms had been healed, and conveyed a question with her eyes as she held her hands up to his face. 

He blinked once, twice, before nodding silently in permission. His eyes were wide and he looked like a frightened animal as she cupped his face with her hands. It occurred to her that he had not been touched with kindness in a very long time, if his unnatural stillness was any indication. 

She did not need to touch him in order to heal him, but she felt that he needed it, especially at that moment.

Slowly, the cuts on his forehead, lip, and cheekbones closed, leaving the skin fresh and pink. Nimue used the Hidden to detect where his other injuries lay, and she healed those, too. His breaths became easier, less labored, as she fixed his broken ribs and the bruises along his chest. Her hands remained on his face, reluctant to let go, even if he had barely moved beneath her touch. 

And then something caught her attention. The Hidden pushed her to focus on his back, on old and new scars that lined it. 

Her eyes shot to his, and she removed her hands from his face. “Lancelot, what happened to your back?” 

He stumbled a few steps away, eyes haunted as he looked at something—anything—else. “It’s nothing.” 

She frowned. “It’s clearly not nothing—” 

“Thank you for healing my wounds.” With that, the Monk turned and walked back away, leaving Nimue standing by the water’s edge alone. 

* * *

Stars. Iris cursed them as they shone in the great expanse of darkness, cursed those tiny, flickering flames. 

Flames. The ones that had burned down Yvoire Abbey. The ones that had burned the Fey man at Gramaire. The ones that had burned and burned and burned. 

Iris grinned. 

Pope Abel had sent Abbott Wicklow and a troop of Trinity Guards to find the Fey and purge the last of their ilk from the world. Iris was among their ranks, pride oozing from every pore. Every time she lifted that golden mask to her face, she whispered to herself. It was the same phrase, repeated over and over again. 

_I have earned this_. 

Iris was revered among the Trinity Guard. She heard the whispers as she passed, she witnessed the tales of her victory being spun. She had slain the Wolf-Blood Witch, a feat no one had been able to accomplish but her. She had done what they could not, and she was reaping the rewards. 

Abbott Wicklow trusted her with all of his reports. He said that she was vicious, and that he needed someone like her. He said that the Guard was getting soft. 

That wouldn’t do. If the Fey were to be exterminated, the Church could not afford anyone not completely dedicated to the cause. 

“Find them for me,” Wicklow had ordered. 

So she did. 

She rooted out the weak, the lazy, the incompetent, and dispatched them. They were no use to God alive if they did not serve Him well. 

The Abbott seemed impressed—after all, she had completed his request in little over two days—and more tasks soon followed. She was to alert him of any dissent within the ranks. She would spy and report back on anything out of the ordinary. It had only been a week since she had joined the Guard, but Iris was becoming Wicklow’s most trusted informant. 

Which was why, when Iris received news that the witch was still alive, she could not believe it. _Would not_ believe it. 

She had shot the woman multiple times, had watched her fall into a watery grave. The witch shouldn’t have survived. It was _impossible_ , not to mention it threatened Iris’s place amongst the Trinity Guard.

Iris had only been accepted into their ranks because she had killed the witch. Now that it was discovered that she had not been successful, she was afraid that Pope Abel would strip her of the position. She had worked too hard for this to lose it now.

That’s why, when Abbott Wicklow came to her with the assignment of hunting down the witch and ending her once and for all, Iris jumped at the opportunity. 

“I won’t let you down,” she had promised him.

His coal-dark eyes had assessed her. “We shall see.” 

Iris swallowed. She couldn’t go back to how things were. She wanted to serve her God, wanted to see the Fey go up in flames. And she couldn’t do that if everything she had worked for was taken from her. Especially not by the witch. 

The Abbott had entrusted her with five other Trinity Guardsmen and had sent them to find the witch and her Fey. Iris had led the soldiers to the beach where the Fey had resided for a time, but it had been deserted. 

It was as she had expected. A man who claimed he had a right to the Pendragon throne had sent a second army to the beach a few days prior, but his men had come back empty-handed. The Abbott sent Iris in their stead. 

Where others had failed, Iris would succeed. She was confident she could track the Fey down with the prints they couldn’t cover up in their haste to leave, she just had to look in the right places. 

_Think_ , she commanded herself. Think think think. It was all she seemed to do as of late, think. She wanted the powerful feeling of a bow in her hands, of loosing an arrow and watching it hit its mark.

She had hit the witch straight in the chest, in the shoulder. It had been _Iris_ who had made the mighty Fey Queen fall, and it would be _Iris_ who would watch her die her last death. 

The smoke from the fire before her trailed up into the sky and was consumed by the stars. Iris glared at the dark gray tendrils, brows pinched together. She had done all she could. So why had everything fallen apart? 

Falling falling falling. That’s what had happened to the witch. She had fallen down into the murky depths of the lake. Dead dead dead, is what she was supposed to be. But she had defied all odds.

Iris scraped a stone along the blade of her sword. A reflection of the flames from the fire swam across the metal, and she watched, enraptured. 

There was something about fire that thrilled her. Its destructive nature was calming, a balm to her soul. Fire took what it wanted, leaving no prisoners. Iris had to be like that if she wanted to remain in the Trinity Guard.

A crunch of sand beneath a pair of boots resounded a few meters away. 

Iris stood abruptly. The Trinity Guards around her followed suit, awaiting her command beneath unfeeling masks. 

The dark of the night was a thick blanket over their surroundings, making it difficult to see who had encroached upon their camp. Light footsteps were the only indication anyone was skulking around at all. 

Finally, Iris spoke. “Show yourself, and we might let you live.” 

Her voice had never been commanding when she worked for the church. No one had taken her seriously, and so she never thought that her words would ever be able to hold the power she desired. Joining the ranks of the Trinity Guard rectified that. In less than a week, she had trained her voice to hold a weight that it never had before. People listened when she spoke, they submitted to her requests. 

The stranger was no different. 

The sound of sand shifting was closer now, as someone was heading toward them. “I have no weapon in my hands,” a gruff voice called from the dark. 

Iris did not trust the voice. The voices in her head always lied, so why wouldn’t this one?

“Let us see for ourselves.” 

The man stepped out of the shadows and into the flickering light of the campfire. He had a blond beard that was matted with blood, and he was dressed in the attire of a raider. 

Something akin to hope flickered to life inside of Iris; she remembered specifically from the Abbott’s briefing that the raiders had sided with the Fey. This man had most likely come from their camp. 

“Where have you come from?” Iris inquired, trying to rein in her excitement. 

The man frowned and ignored her question. 

“Let me make this clear: I know you know where the Fey are, and I will give you one and only one opportunity to tell me where they are before I put my blade through your heart.” 

Iris could feel the Trinity Guards watching her, their gazes heavy on her skin.

The raider shifted on his feet, weighing his options. His silence dragged on, but in the end, he valued his life more than his secrets. Regretfully, he spoke. “There is an alcove in one of the caves farther up the beach. It looks like a dead-end, but if you enter it, you’ll find yourself on a hidden part of the beach.” 

That would do. Satisfied, Iris said, “You may go.” 

Without hesitation, the raider was on his way. He disappeared into the darkness once more, scurrying away like a rat.

Iris could feel the Trinity Guards watching her. She was not known for her mercy, and to give it away so freely to someone so undeserving was odd, especially for her. But it wasn’t their job to understand her, was it?

“Sleep,” she ordered. “We leave at dawn.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few things:  
> -firstly, i love symbolism so ofc i had to add in the imagery of the sky (masculinity and consciousness) meeting the sea (femininity and unconsciousness)  
> -secondly: the visions have begun! and yes, more strong reylo parallels, i couldn’t help myself;  
> -thirdly: yes, there is an iris POV! forewarning: in the show, she starts to fall into patterns of insanity, so we’ll be exploring that here. which means that her POVs will be a little quirky and possibly confusing at times. just a heads up :)
> 
> thank you all for staying with this fic through the sporadic updates, it means the world :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry for the delay, life has been wild. i hope this longer chapter and the squirrel & lancelot scenes make up for it! :)  
> (also in my rush to post this, it is largely un-edited, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes)

The sun rose and painted the world in rosy and golden hues, the sight almost ethereal. Lancelot watched the sunrise from his place at the cliffside, careful to keep his footing as the wind buffeted him from side to side. No one else was awake, much less on the rocky cliff; they were all still asleep in the many caves that dotted the tunnels and along the sands of the beach. Soon, when the camp awoke, they would be notified of the addition of the Weeping Monk. Soon, Lancelot would have to face the consequences of his actions.

Not that he was against the notion—how could he be? No, he was simply afraid that choosing to aid the Fey now would not be enough. Perhaps the only way he could repent was to pay in blood. 

Nonetheless, it was a miracle that no one had noticed his arrival with Nimue. He could not blame them, though—how could anyone warrant notice when they were in the presence of the Wolf-Blood Witch? After all, Lancelot found himself similarly in awe of the woman who had given him mercy, who had consumed his thoughts since they had met. The woman who had shown him more kindness than he deserved.

The feel of her hands, gentle on his face as she healed him, was not something that Lancelot would be able to forget, not for a long while. No one had touched him with such kindness as Nimue had in years. 

And then the Hidden had nudged her toward his scars. Lancelot remembered the fear that had seized his spine, how his heart had started beating through his chest at the prospect of Nimue seeing them on his back. He remembered his instinct to fight being overtaken by the need to run, to get out. He didn’t want her to see how utterly weak he was, didn’t want to bear witness to the pity in her eyes. He did not think he could bear it. 

So then why was he so conflicted?

Lancelot knew why. He knew, just as he knew himself, that Nimue would not look at him with pity or make him feel less than. He knew that she would see him as a stronger man than he really was, and that frightened him. 

And then there was the Hidden. The visions of a mother braiding the hair of a young girl, of that same young girl straying from the path to smell exotic flowers that bent toward her, drawn in by her presence. Like the flowers, Lancelot, too, felt the pull toward Nimue that he had not been able to ignore since he had first smelled her blood on that tree. Something connected them; the Hidden, perhaps, or something more? 

He had never particularly been one to believe in fate, despite being raised in an environment that preached the concept daily. But now, with the undeniable pull toward the person who represented everything he was supposed to hate, he was beginning to entertain the concept. After all, he was not lucky enough to be shown kindness by the Fey Queen herself if fate was not involved. 

“Lancelot?” 

The ex-Paladin was drawn out of his tumultuous thoughts as he turned to find Squirrel behind him, a stick in each hand. 

“Is something the matter?” Lancelot asked, immediately concerned. His eyes scanned the boy, inspecting him for injury but coming up with nothing. His shoulders untensed minutely; Squirrel appeared to be fine. 

Squirrel’s voice was hopeful. “You said you would teach me how to swordfight.” 

“I did.” 

“Well, can you? One lesson won’t cut it.” 

Lancelot’s lips quirked up. “Sure, kid.” 

He didn’t comment on the early hour or how Squirrel was a growing boy who needed his rest, and instead, simply unsheathed both of his swords and handed Squirrel the smaller of the two. 

The boy glanced up at him, brows raised in surprise. “You’re letting me use a real sword?” 

“You already have used a real sword.”

“Yeah, but . . .” 

Lancelot quirked a brow. “Then what is the issue?” 

“I didn’t know what I was doing, before. I don’t . . .” Squirrel trailed off, looking away. “I do not wish to hurt you.”

Something pulled at his chest, and Lancelot swallowed. “That is why I’m going to teach you how to wield a sword properly.”

Squirrel looked back up at him and gave a single, resolute nod. “Alright.” He took the hilt of the smaller sword from Lancelot into his hands. “What do I do?” 

“Before you can fight, you need to learn how to hold your weapon,” Lancelot said as he readied his stance and motioned for Squirrel to follow suit. 

The boy did as he was asked, and waited for his next instructions. Lancelot studied his stance and, deeming it passable, moved on to the way a sword should be held. He walked to Squirrel’s side and adjusted the boy’s elbow with the slightest pressure of his hand. 

“You do not want the sword to be too high, or else you will lose your balance,” Lancelot explained, waiting for Squirrel’s nod of understanding before he continued. “If it is too close to your body, it will be more difficult for you to defend yourself against an attack.” 

Lancelot demonstrated once more, and Squirrel copied his movements as best he was able, a determined gleam in his eyes. 

They went through a few more basic forms before Lancelot noticed Squirrel scrutinizing him in his peripheral vision, a question on the tip of his tongue. The ex-Paladin was surprised the boy could contain himself for so long, knowing how silence was close to impossible for him, and decided to put him out of his misery. 

“What is it?” he asked, assuming a relaxed pose. 

Squirrel wasted no time stalling. “How did you get to be so good at this? I can’t imagine it must have been easy for you.” 

“I have had many years of practice. Carden taught me how to swordfight when I was around your age,” Lancelot said. 

The boy frowned. “I’m not talking about sword fighting—I meant, how are you good at teaching? I assumed that you wouldn’t have had a lot of practice instructing orphans.” 

Lancelot blinked, unable to find an answer to that. After a moment, he replied, “As I said: Carden taught me. I have just been using the opposite of his methods.”

“What, like kindness or patience?” 

Silence, then—

“Yes.” 

“Oh.” 

The moment turned awkward, and Lancelot motioned for the boy to resume his fighting stance. It would do no good to keep discussing the topic—Carden was dead and would not be teaching anyone any time soon. Nimue had seen to that. 

Though he had good reason, Lancelot did not find himself bitter that she killed his pseudo-father. He was far from angry with her, really. In truth, Nimue had done him a favor because if Carden had been alive, he would have hunted Lancelot as he had the Fey, and the ex-Paladin did not think he could bear that. As much as he hated Carden for what he did, he could not help but feel relieved that he was free and that he would not have to suffer Carden’s wrath. 

They went through a few more forms, Lancelot making sure that Squirrel repeated the motions until he perfected them. They were simple, but they at least provided the boy with some basic understanding of the art. 

Lancelot did not want to imagine Squirrel in a situation where he would be defending himself against an enemy alone, but it was necessary. Maybe it would not do much against a Paladin, but Lancelot believed that it was better to go out fighting than to die helplessly. 

“So,” Squirrel said, finally breaking the comfortable silence. 

Lancelot paused in his demonstration of a defensive block and straightened to give the boy his full attention. 

“Are you going to talk about it?” 

“However do you mean?” 

Squirrel gave him a flat look as if the ex-Paladin should know exactly what he was referring to like a psychic. Dimly, Lancelot wondered if mind-reading was possible, considering he and Nimue had shared memories the night before. 

“Playing dumb now, are we?” Squirrel’s expression turned incredulous. 

Lancelot frowned. “I am not sure what you are referring to."

Tired of beating around the bush, Squirrel offered Lancelot a small reprieve from the guessing game, one that quickly blossomed into confusion. “What is going on between you and Nimue?”

Lancelot blinked. Looked away. “Nothing.” 

The boy snorted. “That wasn’t what it looked like to me on the beach last night.” 

Lancelot whipped his head toward Squirrel. “You were spying on us?” 

“Oh, so there’s an _us_ now,” Squirrel crooned. 

Lancelot sheathed his sword and paced a few steps toward the cliff’s edge. The camp was slowly beginning to wake as the sun climbed higher into the sky, which meant they didn’t have long before their conversation was overheard. And Lancelot had a feeling that if either Nimue or Arthur heard them, he would not be long for this world.

“She was healing me,” Lancelot said, terse. “That was all that happened.” 

“Healing, huh?” Squirrel made a noncommittal noise. “I may not be an expert on love—” 

“You’re 10 years old.” 

Squirrel continued on as if Lancelot had not spoken. “—but even I can see when two people like each other.” 

Lancelot frowned. “I would not say that Nimue likes me. I think she tolerates me, given that I saved her life and yours.” 

The boy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but I’ve never seen her look at Arthur that way.” 

“Maybe they prefer to keep their relationship private from nosy children.” Lancelot raised a brow when Squirrel didn’t offer up a counterargument. “Why are you pushing so hard on this, anyway?” 

Squirrel looked down and kicked a pebble with his shoe. “Maybe I don’t want you to leave.” He shrugged noncommittally. 

Lancelot’s brows creased. “What makes you think that I’m going to leave?” 

The boy shot him a look. 

“Oh.” 

Squirrel didn’t think that Lancelot would leave of his own volition, but that he would be sent away. 

“And you think that if I was with Nimue, then the Council would not banish me?” Lancelot clarified. Squirrel gave him another shrug and crossed his arms, petulant. The ex-Paladin sighed. “I am afraid that would likely only anger Arthur further. He already wants me dead. I doubt that being with Nimue would help my case. In fact, it would only make it worse.” 

Not to mention that he would never earn the right to be loved by Nimue, in any capacity. Allowing him to fight for her was more than he deserved.

“I’m not going to leave you, kid,” Lancelot placated, and, after a moment of silent debate, he reached out a hand to lightly ruffle the boy’s hair. 

Squirrel glanced up at him and nodded, relief softening his expression minutely. “Okay.” 

Lancelot opened his mouth to suggest they continue their lesson, when his eyes caught on something over the wall of boulders. He squinted and was just able to make out six figures pacing on the other side of the walled-off beach. They appeared to be looking for something. 

And that was when he saw it—the glint of gold on each figure, save one. It was too far away for Lancelot to make out many of her features, but he knew, instinctively, that it was the same woman who had been a member of the convent. 

A lead weight settled in his gut.

“Squirrel.” Lancelot forced his voice to be calm, collected. His gaze never left the Trinity Guardsmen as he said, “I need you to find Nimue.”

Immediately alert, Squirrel asked, “What’s wrong?”

Lancelot worked his jaw. “Find her, now.” When the boy didn’t move, the ex-Paladin glanced down and said, “Quickly, Percy.” 

As if Lancelot using his real name betrayed the gravity of the situation, Squirrel nodded emphatically and raced away, scrambling down the treacherous rocks toward the beach.

If anyone discovered that there were Trinity Guards on their scent, Lancelot doubted that they would have mercy on him; he doubted that he would be spared from blame. After all, it was suspicious how wherever he went, trouble followed. He frowned. He did not want Nimue to think that he had betrayed her, not after everything. He had to do something, and fast. 

The camp was slowly beginning to wake below him, and he could hear the voices of the Fey echoing from the cave system behind him. It would not be long before everyone was awake, and when that happened, not even a wall of boulders would be able to mask the noise.

But perhaps Lancelot could. 

It was worth a try. 

He closed his eyes and searched for the thing inside of him that allowed him to smell out the Fey, that had allowed him to cloak Nimue and Squirrel. He thought of all he had to lose, all he _would_ lose if the Trinity Guard found them. Lancelot could not let that happen. He _wouldn't_. 

Lancelot listened to the sounds of the beach—the waves crashing against the shore, the birds cawing—and imagined them completely overwhelming any other sound that the Fey could make. It was slow at first, so slow that he believed he had failed. And then he heard the beach noises growing louder. 

He furrowed his brows in concentration, allowing the crescendo to encompass everything and everyone. There was a thrumming in his blood, a hum that rose up to meet his demands. It sang and drowned out every trace of Fey life. Lancelot was so consumed by the feeling that he barely registered someone in front of him, shaking his shoulders.

“Lancelot!” Nimue’s voice rang out over the thrum in his head. “Open your eyes.” 

Lancelot’s eyes snapped open upon her request, and he focused his attention on her while keeping the sound around him in check. It was difficult to hear her over the cacophony surrounding them. 

“What are you doing?” she hissed, though it was more of a shout. Her ocean eyes narrowed and darted between his, searching for an answer. “Why is everything so loud?” 

“Trinity Guards,” he managed to say, struggling to maintain his hold on the power inside of him. He nodded his head in the direction of the guardsmen outside of the border.

Terror overtook her expression. “Are you _trying_ to alert them to our presence? Is that what this is?” She pushed away from him, disgust creeping into her eyes. 

Lancelot rushed to reassure her. He couldn’t lose her trust, not now. “No,” he placated. “The camp is waking. If they hear the Fey, it will be over. There won’t be any more running.” 

“So your thought-process, in order for the Trinity Guard to not hear us, was to make everything louder?” Her brows rose in incredulity. 

Lancelot worked his jaw. “I am amplifying the noises of the beach. They will not be able to hear any voices if the waves are too loud.” 

Nimue’s gaze was still hard; he could tell that she was having a difficult time trusting him. Not that he blamed her. Before he could apologize again, she spoke, and the words she uttered were so surprising, that he almost lost his hold on the sound around them. 

“I trust you.” 

He blinked, not quite registering her words. There must have been a question in his eyes, for she continued on. 

“Just tell me what I can do.” 

Lancelot swallowed, and nodded, once. He looked out to the boulders again, but the Guardsmen were gone. A small breath escaped him, the only outward sign of relief he showed. Nimue spun to follow his gaze. 

“They left,” she breathed. Turning back to him, she said, “You can lift the sound barrier now.” 

But something was not quite right. Lancelot knew the unmasked Guard, knew that she was not as she appeared. She was a wolf in sheep’s skin, and not someone to be trifled with. Though he had only met her once, he had seen the lust for power in her eyes, had seen the insanity tinging her expression. He had known many Paladins like her—Cardan had been one of them, and though they blindly let their faith guide them, they were not easily deceived. She would not leave so soon, not without sketching out every nook and cranny in the area. 

That was when he saw it—a shadow, creeping around the edge of the farthest boulder along the edge of the shore. Five more followed, and would soon be upon the Fey children who were now playing on the shore, oblivious to the zealots beyond the natural barrier. 

No. Lancelot could not—would not—let any harm befall the children, or any of the Fey again. His fury built inside of him, and just as the first Guardsman rounded the boulder and waded through the shore, Lancelot sent his power cascading over the Fey on the beach. 

Once they were all on the shore, the Trinity Guards glanced around, only to find no one on the beach. Distantly, the power inside of him alerted him to screams echoing below from the frightened Fey, who could see the Guardsmen even if they couldn’t see them. Desperately, he tried to bury their screams of terror beneath the sounds of the waves. 

But he was growing tired. He would not be able to hold this for long. 

Clenching his jaw, Lancelot made a decision. He rushed toward the rocky path to the beach before Nimue could glean his plan. When she realized what he was doing, she rushed after him with a hiss. “Lancelot! What do you think you’re doing?” 

There was no time to explain himself, so Lancelot did not, and focused on not dying from the steep drop below him. He scrambled down the last few feet of the cliffside and drew his sword. He silently cursed; he had left his second blade with Squirrel. 

No matter. He would kill these Guardsmen with his bare hands if he must. 

Though the Fey were invisible to the Guardsmen, they were also invisible to Lancelot, too. Luckily, he was aided by the Hidden and could gain a sense of where the Fey were so that he did not accidentally run into any of them. 

Lancelot’s boots were silent on the sand, and with the added advantage of his invisibility, his first strike was a complete surprise to the Guardsmen.

The first one went down with barely more than a groan, blood gurgling from the cut on his neck and staining the sand at which he dropped dead. The five others whipped their gazes to their fallen comrade, and in less than a breath, they had all drawn their swords and were assessing the area for any sign of life.

Lancelot’s concentration dropped for a split second, but it was enough. A cry from one of the Fey children bleed through his defenses, and the Guardsmen froze. Lancelot quickly got the sound around them back under control, but it was too late. 

“There.” Iris pointed toward the direction the noise had come from. 

Lancelot knew he would be too slow, knew that he had lost the sense of surprise. So he dropped the cloak around him and charged with a shout. 

The Guardsmen turned toward him, shock and anger emanating from their very body language. They raised their swords against him, likely thinking that this would be their revenge for their fallen comrades that he had slaughtered mere days ago.

The furthest Guardsmen from Lancelot went down with a cry, blood gushing from his chest. In that brief moment of surprise, Lancelot took down another two guards with a deadly swipe at the first one’s neck, and a slash at the other’s stomach. They went down in a heap. 

Lancelot, sensing Nimue across from him, nodded his thanks for the help. 

There were only two left, the one from the convent among them. She seemed to sense that she would not win this fight and started to run. Lancelot chased after her, boots beating against the sand. He could hear Nimue taking care of the last Guard behind him as he chased after the convent woman. 

Just as he was almost upon her, she turned with murderous eyes, unslung her bow, and shot an arrow right for his chest. 

By sheer luck, Lancelot dodged just enough that, instead of spearing through his heart, the arrow lodged in his side. He swallowed a groan and gritted his teeth against the pain. He could worry about it later; the woman was getting away. He had to stop her—

Too late. She was already rounding the boulder as he managed to get to his feet, only then realizing he had fallen to the sand upon the arrow’s impact.

Nimue was beside him, no glamour to hide her from view. It had likely dissipated once he had been shot. Lancelot glanced behind them, at the Fey staring at the Guardsmen—and him—in horror. 

Nimue cursed under her breath as she followed his stare. Choosing to ignore the Fey for a moment, choosing to ignore the fact that they would have to come clean about Lancelot’s change of heart at that moment, she asked, “Can you stand?” 

Lancelot grimaced, but he nodded. Nimue looked as if she didn’t quite believe him, and so she slipped under his uninjured arm to support him. They would deal with the convent woman and the aftermath of the battle later. 

Merlin, Arthur, and the Red Spear were running up to them just as they had started on the path back to the camp, away from the shore. The three made a point of giving the Guardsmen a wide berth, expressions betraying their worry. 

When they stopped before Nimue and Lancelot, Arthur demanded to know what had happened. His eyes were narrowed, fury pulling his lips down as he glared at Lancelot. “Was it _his_ doing?”

“No,” Nimue was quick to reassure. The Fey were starting to crowd around them, and Lancelot could make out a few of the Fey from the Council. Their eyes were wary as if they didn’t know what to believe. Nimue raised her voice so that everyone could hear her next words. “Lancelot has chosen his side, and it is with us.” 

Silence reigned for moments on end, and then the angry whispers started. He heard the Fey as they recounted how he had murdered their people, how he had waged genocide against them alongside the Red Paladins. 

Nimue heard them, too, for she met his eyes before turning back to face her people. Her spine straightened, and her tone rang with authority.

“Lancelot has done awful things,” she began, “but he has realized the error of his ways. He wants to fix things.” She took a breath, even as Lancelot lost his. He would never tire of the way her eyes flashed nor the way her cheeks flushed as she defended him. “He saved my life, as well as Squirrels, and just now, he saved all of yours.”

She met Lancelot’s eyes, a silent question. He knew what she was asking without needing her to voice it, and he nodded his head in assent. They would find out eventually, he reasoned, if they did not already know. 

“He is Fey”—gasps and murmurs filled the crowd, some of anger and others of disbelief—“and with his power, he hid you all from the Trinity Guard. He could have walked away and saved his own skin, but he did not.” She glanced at him for a moment. “He may not deserve your forgiveness, and I would never ask that of you, but he does deserve a chance to redeem himself and fight with us against those who wish us death for merely existing.”

After Nimue said her piece, the Fey before them were silent as they assessed Lancelot. He doubted any of them would forgive nor did he expect them to, but it appeared as though they might accept their queen’s reasoning enough to let him live. 

A woman with red hair and dirt-smeared cheeks spoke up from the back of the crowd. Though she was small, her voice carried. “Will you accept your queen’s decision to allow the Monk to remain and to fight with us?” 

Lancelot shifted, adjusting his arm which he had wrapped over Nimue’s shoulders to take weight off of his side. Arthur’s gaze snagged on the movement, but despite the way his expression darkened, he said nothing. 

The Fey murmured for a few moments, clearly in discussion, before the Councilwoman, the one with skin as dark as night, stepped forward. A hush fell over the Fey, and Lancelot could feel as Nimue tensed beside him, awaiting the verdict. 

“He may stay,” the woman said, and his shoulders sagged minutely. He would not be dying today. “However, the Fey do not feel comfortable with the Monk sleeping in their camps.”

Understandable, from their perspective, but Lancelot wanted to reassure them that he would never dare harm the children. 

“Where, then, will he make camp?” Arthur asked, brows pinched close together.

Silence, and then—

“He can stay with me.” 

Arthur’s eyes widened so much that Lancelot would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little concerned. “Are you ins—”

His accusation lay unfinished as Nimue’s expression soured. Something had happened between the two of them recently, but Lancelot had no idea what; after all, what could have happened in less than a day since she had come back? 

“Lancelot will camp with me,” Nimue said, authority ringing in her tone. Lancelot saw Merlin place a steadying hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “If anyone has no further objections, then I suggest the Council get ready for a meeting; we have much to discuss.” 

With that, the crowd dispersed. No one wanted to offer to save Nimue and go through the trouble of camping with Lancelot, but that was fine by him. At least he knew that Nimue would not stab him in his sleep. 

Merlin gave Nimue a nod before following the Council as they made their way back to the cave entrance by the beach. However, instead of following them, Nimue held Lancelot back. Seeing that they hadn’t moved, Arthur and the Red Spear waited as well, but Nimue waved them on ahead. Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but the Red Spear shook her head and led him away. 

Nimue ignored the silent question Lancelot threw her way, and just shook her head. She did not want to speak of it, and he certainly wasn’t going to make her, not when blood still dripped from the sword at her side. 

“Let me heal you,” she said instead. 

Lancelot shook his head, but the motion made him dizzy. He had lost a lot of blood, but the pain hadn’t been so bad with adrenaline pumping through his veins. Now that the crowd had dispersed, and it was just him and Nimue, Lancelot was beginning to feel the full effects of being shot in the side with an arrow. 

“Lancelot!” A shout came from behind them. 

Lancelot craned his neck to look, and when his eyes landed on Squirrel, he gave the boy a small grin. “Hey, kid, thank you for your help—” 

Squirrel had been running toward him, but halted abruptly only a few feet away. His eyes grew wide. “What happened?” 

“It is nothing,” Lancelot said, not wanting the boy to worry.

Squirrel gave him one of those looks that communicated how he didn’t believe a word that Lancelot said. “That doesn’t look good.” 

Nimue nodded her agreement. “No, it doesn’t. Which is why I need to heal it before it gets infected.” 

“I’m fine,” Lancelot said. “Let’s go to the meeting and I can stitch myself up later.” 

He had been forced to get used to healing himself after no one had wanted to touch him. Not even Carden had helped him when he had needed his first stitches; everything he knew, he had taught himself. 

“No.” Nimue’s tone left no room for discussion. 

Squirrel crossed his arms and planted his feet. “Yeah, listen to Nimue, she knows what she’s talking about.” 

Nimue nodded her agreement. “This isn’t my first time dealing with arrow wounds. I know how to deal with them,” she said, wryly. 

“What do you mean?” Squirrel asked, brows drawing together. “I don’t remember you getting shot.” 

Nimue froze as if she had been caught. “I—” she shook her head. “Nevermind.” 

“When were you shot with arrows, Nimue?” Lancelot asked, voice quiet. 

Her gaze snapped to his, her eyes tight. He knew that look, had seen it countless times in a mirror; she was willing herself not to fall into memory. If it was that painful . . . he did not want to make her go through that again. 

Instead of pushing her, Lancelot gestured to the arrow. “Shall we?” 

Nimue shot him a grateful look and went to work. 

She placed a hand on his stomach, close to his side but not quite touching it. Lancelot still grimaced from the pain. 

“This might sting a bit,” she warned before there was a sharp stab of pain in his wound, and then his entire left side grew numb. 

Lancelot watched as the arrow fell out of his side and onto the sand. His gaze was drawn, no to the wound stitching itself back together, but to Nimue. Her brows were furrowed and her nose was scrunched up in concentration. The pressure of her hand against his chest was reassuring and he found that, like the night before, he was leaning into her touch. 

She pulled her hand away and stepped back, and Lancelot found that he wanted to chase the comfort of her touch. What was wrong with him? If Nimue ever found out about the thoughts in his head, she would never want to see him again. 

Lancelot stepped back to put more distance between them. 

Squirrel eyed the two of them before saying, “Don’t you have a meeting to go to?” 

“Right.” Nimue nodded and started to head toward the cave. 

The boy shot Lancelot another before handing him his second sword—the one he had forgotten before the fight—and running off along the beach to play with the other children. Shaking his head, partly at Squirrel’s antics and partly at himself, he followed the Wolf-Blood Witch into the cave. 

But nothing was ever easy. 

Once they were inside, Arthur rounded on him. “Did you lead them here?” 

Lancelot balked and glanced at the rest of the Council crowded around the meeting stone. Nimue paused by his side. He could tell that she wanted to say something, but he wouldn’t let her, not while she and Arthur were going through . . . well, whatever they were going through. 

“Why would I do that?” Lancelot asked, voice calm and even as he met Arthur’s eyes. “Abbot Wicklow had ordered them to kill me before I escaped with Squirrel. What makes you think I’d be inclined to work with them?” 

“Well, you and your Paladins have been looking for the last Fey for a while. Maybe you were playing the long game.” 

Lancelot worked his jaw, trying to keep his anger in check. He was tired of explaining himself, of trying to prove himself to Arthur who was never going to trust him. “If I was still with the Church, why would I shield those children from the Trinity Guard if they were going to kill them for me? It would have made my job easier to let them be slaughtered.” 

Arthur opened his mouth to say something more, but the Red Spear interrupted. 

“Shielding?” she asked, curious. 

Nimue seemed relieved at the change in topic and jumped on the chance to explain. “Lancelot can . . . well, he can harness the Hidden to shield us from sight if he wishes.” 

“Is this true?” Arthur demanded. 

Lancelot nodded. “When I was with the Paladins, I used the hidden to hunt the Fey”—some of the Councilmembers’ stares hardened at this—“but I've learned that it can also be used to protect, as well.” 

“This could be useful,” mused the Red Spear. “Especially when the time comes for the fight between us and Cumber.” She gave Lancelot an appraising look. “We don’t have the numbers—not even close—but this could give us an advantage.” 

The dark-skinned woman who had spoken for the Fey on the beach stepped forward. “There is still the matter of forces. Statistically speaking, we won’t stand a chance against the forces of the Church and Cumber combined, even if the raiders assist us.”

“Way to strengthen our confidence, Kaze.” Arthur frowned. 

Ignoring him, the woman—Kaze—continued. “King Uther might lend his forces to us. He wants control of the Church, and Cumber directly challenges his rule. We would be facing common enemies.” 

“Considering I didn’t give him the Sword like he asked and ran out on our deal, I do not think that he will be inclined to negotiate with me anytime soon.” Nimue’s smile was wry, but there was a hint of worry in her tone. 

“That is why you will not be going to persuade him,” Kaze said, looking in between Arthur and the Red Spear. 

Nimue caught on quickly and blinked. “You want to send—”

“It makes the most sense, no?” Kaze asked. 

“What does?” Arthur asked, seemingly the only one who did not follow. 

Nimue frowned and explained it to him. “Kaze wants to send you and the Red Spear to negotiate with Uther.” She turned back to Kaze. “But why them?”

“Arthur was a mercenary from Uther’s kingdom, and is probably someone that Uther would trust the most out of all of us,” Kaze said. “The Red Spear has a connection to Cumber and direct insight into his weaknesses. That knowledge is useful and something I would not think that Uther would be foolish enough to turn down.”

Arthur started, “What? We can’t just _leave_ —”

“How long would it take them?” Nimue interrupted.

The silence was deafening, but luckily Kaze filled it with an answer. “About 8 days, there and back on foot.” 

Lancelot was about to mention that he still had the ability to call Goliath to his side, thanks to the magic whistle Merlin had given him, but he thought better of it. He did not trust anyone else with his horse. Besides, they would be fine. It was most likely best to give Nimue as much time as possible to sort out her feelings toward Arthur, who had done something to anger her. 

“Then it’s settled,” Nimue said, meeting eyes with the Red Spear, who gave her a subtle nod, though she barely spared Arthur a glance. “Arthur and the Red Spear will journey to the capital.” 

“What will we do here?” one of the older Councilmen asked. 

Nimue met Lancelot’s eyes. “We need to train an army somehow, and Lancelot can help with his extensive combat training.” 

Likely sensing her irritation already, no one wanted to mention that Lancelot’s training was the reason that so many of their kind were dead. Perhaps they felt that it wouldn’t be worth it if Nimue would just defend him again. 

“We’ll go over the specifics later,” Kaze said to Arthur and the Red Spear. “Right now, try to scavenge the things that you will need.” 

The Council took its cue to leave, but before Lancelot could follow Nimue out, Arthur stopped him by gripping his arm. He did not look as angry as he had before, just exhausted. 

When Nimue shot him a questioning glance, he held up a hand and gave her a reassuring nod. He would be fine. She returned the gesture and left the cave with Kaze, the two discussing Arthur and the Red Spear’s upcoming trip in hushed tones. 

Arthur watched the two leave with sorrow and regret in his eyes. Though he trusted Arthur not to do anything stupid, Lancelot still put a hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. The man simply shook his head. 

“I’m not looking for a fight. I still despise you, but I am”—he swallowed, as if in preparation for what he was about to admit—“grateful. To you, for saving those children. And I am ready to believe that you mean us no harm.” 

Lancelot raised a brow. 

Huffing out a breath, Arthur said, “Even I can admit that if you wanted us dead, you’d have done it by now. You’ve had plenty of chances.”

Lancelot nodded, too shocked to speak. This had certainly not been what he had expected. 

“Well . . .” Arthur started, shifting his feet awkwardly before giving Lancelot a stiff pat on the shoulder. “I should be going. To pack.” 

“Of course,” Lancelot said. Before Arthur could go, however, he added, “Thank you. For trusting me.” 

Arthur frowned. “I wouldn’t call it trust.” 

With that, the man left Lancelot to silent contemplation.

**Author's Note:**

> even before i watched cursed, i already loved nimulot. i was a reylo and a zutara shipper before entering this fandom, so ofc i became attached to the ship that was basically their love child. i'll try to keep the updates quick, but school is starting soon so updates may be sparse.


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